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RACING  RHTMES 


RACING    RHYMES 
OTHER  VERSES 


BY  ADAM   LINDSAY   GORDON 

SELECTED    AND    ARRANGED 
BY    T.    O.    GUEN 


NEW   YORK  •  R  •  H  •  RUSSELL 
PUBLISHER    -    M  C  M  I 


Copyright,  IQOi,  by 
ROBERT    HOWARD    RUSSELL 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  .   JOHN  WILSON 
AND  SON    .    CAMBRIDGE    .    U.  S.  A. 


Stack 
Annex 

£ 


ffitmavixm 

(A.  L.  GORDON) 

A  rest  !  Hard  by  the  margin  of  that  sea 
Whose  sounds  are  mingled  with  his  noble 
verse, 

Now  lies  the  shell  that  never  more  will  house 
The  fine,  strong  spirit  of  my  gifted  friend. 
Yea,  he  who  flashed  upon  us  suddenly, 
A  shining  soul  with  syllables  of  fire, 
Who  sang  the  first  great  songs  these  lands  can 

claim 

To  be  their  own  ;  the  one  who  did  not  seem 
To  know  what  royal  place  awaited  him 
Within  the  Temple  of  the  Beautiful, 
Has  passed  away  ;  and  we  who  knew  him,  sit 
Aghast  in  darkness,  dumb  with  that  great  grief, 
WThose  stature  yet  we  cannot  comprehend  : 
While  over  yonder  churchyard,  hearsed  with  pines, 
The  night-wind  sings  its  immemorial  hymn, 
And  sobs  above  a  newly-covered  grave. 
1 


In  Memoriam 

The  bard,  the  scholar,  and  the  man  who  lived 

That  frank,  that  open-hearted  life  which  keeps 

The  splendid  fire  of  English  chivalry 

From  dying  out ;  the  one  who  never  wronged 

A  fellow-man ;  the  faithful  friend  who  judged 

The  many,  anxious  to  be  loved  of  him, 

By  what  he  saw,  and  not  by  what  he  heard, 

As  lesser  spirits  do ;  the  brave  great  soul 

That  never  told  a  lie,  or  turned  aside 

To  fly  from  danger ;  he,  I  say,  was  one 

Of  that  bright  company  this  sin-stained  world 

Can  ill  afford  to  lose. 

They  did  not  know, 

The  hundreds  who  had  read  his  sturdy  verse, 
And  revelled  over  ringing  major  notes, 
The  mournful  meaning  of  the  undersong 
Which  runs  through  all  he  wrote,  and  often  takes 
The  deep  autumnal,  half-prophetic  tone 
Of  forest  winds  in  March ;  nor  did  they  think 
That  on  that  healthy-hearted  man  there  lay 
The  wild  specific  curse  which  seems  to  cling 
For  ever  to  the  Poet's  twofold  life  ! 

To  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon,  I  who  laid 
Two  years  ago  on  Lionel  Michael's  grave 
8 


In  Memoriam 

A  tender  leaf  of  my  regard ;  yea  I, 

Who  culled  a  garland  from  the  flowers  of  song 

To  place  where  Harpur  sleeps  ;  I,  left  alone, 

The  sad  disciple  of  a  shining  band 

Now  gone  !  to  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon's  name 

I  dedicate  these  lines ;  and  if  't  is  true 

That  past  the  darkness  of  the  grave,  the  soul 

Becomes  omniscient,  then  the  bard  may  stoop 

From  his  high  seat  to  take  the  offering, 

And  read  it  with  a  sigh  for  human  friends, 

In  human  bonds,  and  grey  with  human  griefs. 

And  having  wove  and  proffered  this  poor  wreath, 

I  stand  to-day  as  lone  as  he  who  saw 

At  nightfall,  through  the  glimmering  moony  mists, 

The  last  of  Arthur  on  the  wailing  mere, 

And  strained  in  vain  to  hear  the  going  voice. 

HENRY  KENDALL. 


"  Question  not,  but  live  and  labour 

Till  yon  goal  be  won, 
Helping  every  feeble  neighbour, 

Seeking  help  from  none  ; 
Life  is  mostly  froth  and  bubble, 

Two  things  stand  like  stone  — 
Kindness  in  another's  trouble, 

Courage  in  your  own. 

"  Courage,  comrades,  this  is  certain, 

All  is  for  the  best  — 
There  are  lights  behind  the  curtain  — 

Gentles,  let  us  rest. 
As  the  smoke- rack  veers  to  seaward, 

From  '  the  ancient  clay,' 
With  its  moral  drifting  leeward, 

Ends  the  wanderer's  lay." 


ii 


Hi/ 


C  0  NT E  NTS 


How  WE  BEAT  THE  FAVOURITE     . 

THE  ROLL  OF  THE  KETTLEDRUM;  OR, 
THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  CHARGER  . 

THE  RACE 

WOLF  AND  HOUND 

THE  SICK  STOCKRIDER 

BANKER'S  DREAM 

THE  FIELDS  OF  COLERAINE 

A  HUNTING  SONG 

BY  FLOOD  AND  FIELD 

IN  UTRUMQUE  PARATUS 

LEX  TALIONIS 

FINIS  EXOPTATUS 

Cui  BONO 

WORMWOOD  AND  NIGHTSHADE 

ARS  LONGA 

DAWN 

CONFITEOR 

QUARE  FATIGASTI 

13 


PAGE 
15 

22 

37 
45 
5° 
56 
63 
66 
70 

75 
81 
86 
90 
93 
99 
99 
100 

102 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE  SWIMMER 105 

No  NAME 106 

THICK-HEADED  THOUGHTS .  109 

THE  THREE  FRIENDS no 

FROM  THE  WRECK 115 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  BRITOMARTE 122 

To  MY  SISTER 136 

DE  TE 141 

THE  RHYME  OF  JOYOUS  GARDE 146 

GONE 146 


RACING  RHYMES 

AND     OTHER     VERSES 


HOW   WE   BEAT  THE   FAVOURITE 

A   LAY   OF   THE   LOAMSHIRE   HUNT   CUP 


A 


YE,  squire,"  said  Stevens,  "  they  back  him 

at  evens; 
The  race  is  all  over,  bar  shouting,  they 

say; 

The  Clown  ought  to  beat  her ;  Dick  Neville  is  sweeter 
Than  ever  —  he  swears  he  can  win  all  the  way. 


Racing  Rhymes 

"  A  gentleman  rider  —  well,  I  'm  an  outsider, 
But  if  he  's  a  gent  who  the  mischief's  a  jock? 

You  swells  mostly  blunder,  Dick  rides  for  the  plunder, 
He  rides,  too,  like  thunder  —  he  sits  like  a  rock. 

"  He  calls  *  hunted  fairly '  a  horse  that  has  barely 
Been  stripp'd  for  a  trot  within  sight  of  the  hounds, 

A  horse  that  at  Warwick  beat  Birdlime  and  Yorick, 
And  gave  Abdelkader  at  Aintree  nine  pounds. 

"  They  say  we  have  no  test  to  warrant  a  protest ; 

Dick  rides  for  a  lord  and  stands  in  with  a  steward  ; 
The  light  of  their  faces  they  show  him  —  his  case  is 

Prejudged  and  his  verdict  already  secured. 

"  But  none  can  outlast  her,  and  few  travel  faster, 
She  strides  in  her  work  clean  away  from  The  Drag ; 

You  hold  her  and  sit  her,  she  could  n't  be  fitter, 
Whenever  you  hit  her  she  '11  spring  like  a  stag. 

"And  p'rhaps  the   green  jacket,   at   odds  though 

they  back  it, 

May  fall,  or  there  's  no  knowing  what  may  turn  up. 
The  mare  is  quite  ready,  sit  still  and  ride  steady, 
Keep  cool;   and  I  think  you  may  just  win  the 
cup." 

16 


How  We  Beat  the  Favourite 

Dark-brown  with  tan  muzzle,  just  stripped  for  the 
tussle, 

Stood  Iseult,  arching  her  neck  to  the  curb, 
A  lean  head  and  fiery,  strong  quarters  and  wiry, 

A  loin  rather  light,  but  a  shoulder  superb. 

Some  parting  injunction,  bestowed  with  great  unction, 
I  tried  to  recall,  but  forgot  like  a  dunce, 

When  Reginald  Murray,  full  tilt  on  White  Surrey, 
Came  down  in  a  hurry  to  start  us  at  once. 

"  Keep  back  in  the  yellow  !  Come  up  on  Othello  ! 
Hold  hard  on  the  chestnut !  Turn  round  on  The 

Drag! 
Keep    back  there  on  Spartan !    Back  you,   sir,   in 

tartan  ! 
So,  steady  there,  easy,"  and  down  went  the  flag. 

We   started,    and    Kerr   made   strong   running   on 

Mermaid, 
Through  furrows  that  led  to  the  first  stake-and- 

bound, 
The   crack,    half  extended,    look'd   bloodlike    and 

splendid, 

Held  wide  on  the  right  where  the  headland  was 
sound. 
2  17 


Racing  Rhymes 

I  pulled  hard  to  baffle  her  rush  with  the  snaffle, 
Before  her  two-thirds  of  the  field  got  away ; 

All  through  the  wet  pasture  where  floods  of  the  last 

year 
Still  loitered,  they  clotted  my  crimson  with  clay. 

The  fourth  fence,  a  wattle,  floor'd  Monk  and  Blue- 
bottle ; 
The  Drag  came  to  grief  at  the  blackthorn  and 

ditch, 

The  rails  toppled  over  Redoubt  and  Red  Rover, 
The  lane   stopped    Lycurgus  and   Leicestershire 
Witch. 

She  passed  like  an  arrow  Kildare  and  Cock  Sparrow, 
And  Mantrap  and  Mermaid  refused  the  stone 
wall; 

And  Giles  on  The  Greyling  came  down  at  the  paling, 
And  I  was  left  sailing  in  front  of  them  all. 

I  took  them  a  burster,  nor  eased  her  nor  nursed  her 

Until  the  Black  Bullfinch  led  into  the  plough, 
And  through  the  strong  bramble  we  bored  with  a 

scramble  — 

My    cap   was    knocked    off    by    the    hazel-tree 
bough. 

18 


How  We  Beat  the  Favourite 

Where    furrows    looked    lighter    I    drew   the   rein 

tighter  — 
Her  dark  chest  all  dappled  with  flakes  of  white 

foam, 
Her    flanks    mud    bespattered,   a   weak    rail    she 

shattered  — 

We  landed  on  turf  with  our   heads  turn'd  for 
home. 

Then  crash'd  a  low  binder,  and  then  close  behind 

her 

The  sward  to  the  strokes  of  the  favourite  shook ; 
His  rush  roused  her  mettle,  yet  ever  so  little 

She   shorten' d    her   stride   as   we   raced   at   the 
brook. 

She  rose  when  I  hit  her.     I  saw  the  stream  glitter, 
A  wide  scarlet  nostril  flashed  close  to  my  knee, 

Between  sky  and  water  The  Clown  came  and  caught 

her, 
The  space  that  he  cleared  was  a  caution  to  see. 

And  forcing  the  running,  discarding  all  cunning, 
A  length  to  the  front  went  the  rider  in  green ; 

A  long  strip  of  stubble,  and  then  the  big  double, 
Two  stiff  flights  of  rails  with  a  quickset  between. 
19 


Racing  Rhymes 

She  raced  at  the  rasper,  I  felt  my  knees  grasp  her, 
I  found  my  hands  give  to  her  strain  on  the  bit ; 

She  rose  when  The  Clown  did  —  our  silks  as  we 

bounded 
Brush'd  lightly,  our  stirrups  clash'd  loud  as  we  lit. 

A  rise  steeply  sloping,  a  fence  with  stone  coping  — 
The  last  —  we  diverged  round  the  base  of  the  hill ; 

His  path  was  the  nearer,  his  leap  was  the  clearer, 
I  flogg'd  up  the  straight,  and  he  led  sitting  still. 

She  came  to  his  quarter,  and  on  still  I  brought  her, 
And  up  to  his  girth,  to  his  breast-plate  she  drew ; 

A  short  prayer  from  Neville  just  reach'd  me,  "  The 

devil ! " 
He  mutter'd  —  lock'd  level  the  hurdles  we  flew. 

A  hum  of  hoarse  cheering,  a  dense  crowd  careering, 
All  sights  seen  obscurely,  all  shouts  vaguely  heard ; 

"The  green  wins!"  "The  crimson!"  The  multi- 
tude swims  on, 
And  figures  are  blended  and  features  are  blurr'd. 

"The  horse  is  her  master!"    "The  green  forges 

past  her !  " 

"  The  Clown  will  outlast  her  ! "    "  The    Clown 
wins  !  "  "  The  Clown  !  " 
20 


How  We  Beat  the  Favourite 

The  white  railing  races  with  all  the  white  faces, 
The  chestnut  outpaces,  outstretches  the  brown. 

On  still  past  the  gateway  she  strains  in  the  straightway, 
Still  struggles,  "The  Clown  by  a  short  neck  at 

most," 
He  swerves,  the  green  scourges,  the  stand  rocks 

and  surges, 
And  flashes,  and  verges,  and  flits  the  white  post. 

Aye  !  so  ends  the  tussle,  —  I  knew  the  tan  muzzle 
Was    first,    though    the    ring-men   were    yelling 

"Dead  heat!" 
A  nose  I  could  swear  by,  but  Clarke  said,  "  The 

mare  by 

A  short  head."      And  that's  how  the  favourite 
was  beat. 


THE   ROLL   OF   THE    KETTLEDRUM 

OR,   THE   LAY   OF   THE   LAST    CHARGER 

"  You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance,  as  yet, 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  -why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ?  "  —  BYRON. 

ONE  line  of  swart  profiles,  and  bearded  lips 
dressing, 
One  ridge  of  bright  helmets,  one  crest 

of  fair  plumes, 
One  streak  of  blue  sword-blades  all  bared  for  the 

fleshing, 
One  row  of  red  nostrils  that  scent  battle-fumes. 

Forward  !  the  trumpets  were  sounding  the  charge, 
The  roll  of  the  kettledrum  rapidly  ran, 

That  music,  like  wild-fire  spreading  at  large, 
Madden'd  the  war-horse  as  well  as  the  man. 

Forward  !  still  forward  !  we  thunder'd  along, 

Steadily  yet,  for  our  strength  we  were  nursing ; 
Tall  Ewart,  our  sergeant,  was  humming  a  song, 
Lance-corporal  Black  Will  was  blaspheming  and 
cursing. 

22 


The  Roll  of  the  Kettledrum 

Open'd  their  volley  of  guns  on  our  right, 

Puffs  of  grey  smoke,  veiling  gleams  of  red  flame, 

Curling  to  leeward,  were  seen  on  the  height, 

Where  the  batteries  were  posted,  as  onward  \ve 
came. 


Spreading  before  us  their  cavalry  lay, 

Squadron  on  squadron,  troop  upon  troop  ; 

We  were  so  few,  and  so  many  were  they  — 
Eagles  wait  calmly  the  sparrow-hawk's  stoop. 
23 


Racing  Rhymes 

Forward  !  still  forward  !  steed  answering  steed 
Cheerily    neigh'd   while   the    foam    flakes    were 
toss'd 

From  bridle  to  bridle  —  the  top  of  our  speed 
Was  gain'd,  but  the  pride  of  our  order  was  lost. 

One  was  there,  leading  by  nearly  a  rood, 
Though  we  were  racing  he  kept  to  the  fore, 

Still  as  a  rock  in  his  stirrups  he  stood, 
High  in  the  sunlight  his  sabre  he  bore. 

Suddenly  tottering,  backwards  he  crash'd, 
Loudly  his  helm  right  in  front  of  us  rung ; 

Iron  hoofs  thunder'd,  and  naked  steel  flash'd 
Over  him  —  youngest,  where  many  were  young. 

Now  we  were  close  to  them,  every  horse  striding 
Madly  ;  —  St.  Luce  pass'd  with  never  a  groan ;  — 

Sadly  my  master  look'd  round  —  he  was  riding 
On  the  boy's  right,  with  a  line  of  his  own. 

Thursting  his  hand  in  his  breast  or  breast-pocket, 
While    from   his   wrist   the    sword    swung    by   a 

chain, 

Swiftly  he  drew  out  some  trinket  or  locket, 
Kiss'd  it  (I  think)  and  replaced  it  again. 
24 


The  Roll  of  the  Kettledrum 

Burst,  while  his  fingers  reclosed  on  the  haft, 
Jarring  concussion  and  earth  shaking  din, 

Horse  'counter'd  horse,  and  I  reel'd,  but  he  laughed, 
Down  went  his  man,  cloven  clean  to  the  chin  ! 

Wedged  in  the  midst  of  that  struggling  mass, 
After  the  first  shock,  where  each  his  foe  singled, 

Little  was  seen  save  a  dazzle,  like  glass 

In   the    sun,  with  gray  smoke  and    black   dust 
intermingled. 

Here  and  there  redden'd  a  pistol  shot,  flashing 
Through  the  red  sparkle  of  steel  upon  steel ! 

Redder  the  spark  seem'd,  and  louder  the  clashing, 
Struck  from  the  helm  by  the  iron-shod  heel ! 

Over  fallen  riders,  like  wither'd  leaves  strewing 
Uplands  in  autumn,  we  sunder'd  their  ranks ; 
Steeds    rearing   and    plunging,    men    hacking   and 

hewing, 

Fierce  grinding  of  sword-blades,  sharp   goading 
of  flanks. 

Short  was  the  crisis  of  conflict  soon  over  — 
Being  too  good  (I  suppose)  to  last  long  — 

Through  them  we  cut,  as  the  scythe  cuts  the  clover, 
Batter'd  and  stain'd  we  emerged  from  their  throng. 
27 


Racing  Rhymes 

Some  of  our  saddles  were  emptied,  of  course  ; 

To  heaven   (or  elsewhere)   Black  Will  had  been 

carried  ! 
Ned  Sullivan  mounted  Will's  riderless  horse, 

His  mare  being  hurt,  while  ten  seconds  we  tarried. 

And  then  we  reformed,   and  went  at  them  once 

more, 
And   ere   they   had   rightly   closed   up   the   old 

track, 

We  broke  through  the  lane  we  had  open'd  before, 
And  as  we  went  forward  e'en  so  we  came  back. 

Our  numbers  were  few,  and  our  loss  far  from  small, 
They  could  fight,  and,  besides,  they  were  twenty 

to  one  ; 
We  were   clear   of  them    all  when  we   heard   the 

recall, 
And  thus  we  returned,  but  my  tale  is  not  done. 

For  the  hand  of  my  rider  felt  strange  on  my  bit, 
He  breathed  once   or  twice   like    one    partially 

choked, 

And  sway'd  in  his  seat,  then  I  knew  he  was  hit ;  — 
He  must   have  bled  fast,  for  my  withers  were 
soak'd, 

28 


The  Roll  of  the  Kettledrum 

And  scarcely  an  inch  of  my  housing  was  dry ; 

I  slacken'd  my  speed,  yet  I  never  quite  stopp'd, 
Ere  he  patted  my  neck,  said, "  Old  fellow,  good-bye  ! " 

And  dropped  off  me  gently,  and  lay  where  he 
dropp'd  ! 

Ah,  me  !  after  all,  they  may  call  us  dumb  creatures  — 
I  tried  hard  to  neigh,  but  the  sobs  took  my  breath, 

Yet  I    guessed,  gazing   down  at  those   still,   quiet 

features, 
He  was  never  more  happy  in  life  than  in  death. 


Two  years  back,  at  Aldershot,  Elrington  mentioned 
My   name   to    our   colonel   one    field-day.      He 

said, 
"  '  Count,' '  Steeltrap,'  and  '  Challenger  '  ought  to  be 

pensioned ; " 

"  Count "  died  the  same  week,  and  now  "  Steel- 
trap  "  is  dead. 

That  morning  our  colonel  was  riding  "  Theresa," 

The  filly  by  "Teddington  "  out  of  "Mistake;  " 
His  girls,  pretty  Alice  and  fair-hair'd  Louisa, 

Were   there  on  the   ponies  he   purchased  from 
Blake. 

29 


Racing  Rhymes 

I  remember  he  pointed  me  out  to  his  daughters, 
Said  he,  "  In  this  troop  I  may  fairly  take  pride, 

But  I  've  none  left  like  him  in  my  officers'  quarters, 
Whose  life-blood  the  mane  of  old  '  Challenger ' 
dyed." 

Where  are  they  —  the  war-steeds  who  shared  in  our 

glory, 

The  "  Lanercost  "  colt,  and  the  "Acrobat  "  mare, 
And   the    Irish    division,    "  Kate    Kearney "    and 

"  Rory," 
And  rushing  "  Roscommon,"  and  eager  "  Kildare," 

And  "  Freeny,"  a  favourite  once  with  my  master, 

And  "  Warlock,"  a  sluggard,  but  honest  and  true, 
And    "  Tancred,"  as    honest    as    "  Warlock,"    but 

faster 

And  "  Blacklock,"  and  "  Birdlime,"  and  "  Molly 
Carew"?  — 

All  vanish'd,  what  wonder  !    twelve  summers  have 

passed 
Since  then,  and   my   comrade   lies   buried   this 

day  — 

Old  "  Steeltrap,"  the  kicker  —  and  now  I  'm  the  last 
Of  the  chargers  who  shared  in  that  glorious  fray. 


The  Roll  of  the  Kettledrum 

Come,   "  Harlequin,"  keep  your   nose  out  of  my 

manger, 

You  "11  get  your  allowance,  my  boy,  and  no  more  ; 
Snort !    "  Silvertail,"  snort !   when  you  've  seen  as 

much  danger 
As  I  have,  you  won't  mind  the  rats  in  the  straw. 


Our  gallant  old  colonel  came  limping  and  halting, 
The  day  before  yesterday,  into  my  stall ; 

Oh  !  light  to  the  saddle  I  've  once  seen  him  vaulting, 
In   full   marching   order,  steel   broadsword   and 
all. 

And  now  his  left  leg  than  his  right  is  made  shorter 
Three  inches,  he  stoops,  and  his  chest  is  unsound  ; 

He  spoke  to  me  gently,  and  patted  my  quarter, 
I  laid  my  ears  back  and  look'd  playfully  round. 

For  that   word   kindly   meant,  that   caress   kindly 

given, 
I  thank'd  him,  though  dumb,  but  my  cheerfulness 

fled; 

More  sadness  I  drew  from  the  face  of  the  living 
Than   years  back  I   did  from   the  face  of   the 
dead. 

31 


Racing  Rhymes 

For  the  dead  face,  upturn'd,  tranquil,  joyous,  and 

fearless, 
Look'd  straight  from  green  sod  to  blue  fathomless 

sky 
With   a  smile ;    but  the   living   face,    gloomy   and 

tearless, 
And  haggard  and  harass'd,  look'd  down  with  a  sigh. 

Did  he  think  on  the  first  time  he  kiss'd  Lady  Mary  ? 

On  the  morning  he  wing'd  Horace  Greville  the 

beau? 
On  the  winner  he  steer'd  in  the  grand  military? 

On  the  charge  that  he  headed  twelve  long  years  ago  ? 

Did  he  think  on  each  fresh  year,  of  fresh  grief  the 
herald  ? 

On  lids  that  are  sunken,  and  locks  that  are  gray  ? 
On  Alice,  who  bolted  with  Brian  Fitzgerald? 

On  Rupert,  his  first-born,  dishonor'd  by  "play"? 

On  Louey,  his  darling,  who  sleeps  'neath  the  cypress, 
That  shades  her  and  one  whose  last  breath  gave 

her  life? 

I  saw  those  strong  fingers  hard  over  each  eye  press  — 
Oh  !  the  dead  rest  in  peace  when  the  quick  toil 
in  strife  ! 


The  Roll  of  the  Kettledrum 

Scoff,  man  !  egotistical,  proud,  unobservant, 

Since  I  with  man's  grief  dare  to  sympathise  thus  ; 

Why  scoff?  —  fellow-creature  I  am,  fellow-servant 
Of  God  :  can  man  fathom  God's  dealings  with  us  ? 

The  wide  gulf  that  parts  us  may  yet  be  no  wider 
Than  that  which  parts  you  from  some  being  more 

blest ; 
And  there  may  be  more  links  'twixt  the  horse  and 

his  rider 
Than  ever  your  shallow  philosophy  guess'd. 

You  are  proud  of  your  power,  and  vain  of  your 

courage, 

And  your  blood,  Anglo-Saxon,  or  Norman,  or  Celt ; 
Though   your  gifts   you   extol,   and   our   gifts   you 

disparage, 

Your  perils,  your  pleasures,  your  sorrows  we  Ve 
felt. 

We,    too,   sprung   from  mares   of  the   prophet   of 

Mecca, 
And  nursed  on  the  pride  that  was  born  with  the 

milk, 
And    filtered    through    "  Crucifix,"     "  Beeswing," 

"  Rebecca," 

We  love  sheen  of  scarlet  and  shimmer  of  silk. 
3  33 


Racing  Rhymes 

We,    too,    sprung    from    loins   of    the    Ishmaelite 
stallions, 

We  glory  in  daring  that  dies  or  prevails  ; 
From  'counter  of  squadrons,  and  crash  of  battalions, 

To  rending  of  blackthorns,  and  rattle  of  rails. 

In  all  strife  where  courage  is  tested  and  power, 
From  the  meet  on  the  hill-side,  the  horn-blast, 
the  find, 

The  burst,  the  long  gallop  that  seems  to  devour 
The  champaign,  all  obstacles  flinging  behind, 

To    the    cheer    and    the   clarion,    the    war- music 

blended 

With  war-cry,  the  furious  dash  at  the  foe, 
The  terrible  shock,  the  recoil,  and  the  splendid 
^are   sword,  flashing  blue,   rising  red   from  the 
blow. 

I  've  borne  one  through   perils  where   many   have 

seen  us, 

No  tyrant,  a  kind  friend,  a  patient  instructor, 
And  I  Ve  felt  some  strange  element  flashing  between 

us, 

Till    the    saddle   seem'd    turn'd    to   a   lightning 
conductor. 

34 


The  Roll  of  the  Kettledrum 

Did  he  see?    could  he  feel  through  the  faintness, 

the  numbness, 
While   linger'd   the   spirit   half-loosed   from  the 

clay, 

Dumb  eyes  seeking  his  in  their  piteous  dumbness, 
Dumb  quivering  nostrils,  too  stricken  to  neigh  ? 

And   what  then?  the  colours  reversed,  the  drums 

muffled, 
The  black  nodding  plumes,  the  dead  march,  and 

the  pall, 

The  stern  faces,  soldier-like,  silent,  unruffled, 
The  slow  sacred  music  that  floats  over  all ! 

Cross    carbine    and    boarspear,    hang    bugle    and 

banner, 

Spur,  sabre,  and  snaffle,  and  helm  —  Is  it  well  ? 
Vain     'scutcheon,    false    trophies     of     Mars     and 

Diana,  — 

Can    the    dead    laurel    sprout    with    the    live 
immortelle  ? 

It  may  be,  —  we  follow,  and  though  we  inherit 
Our  strength  for  a  season,  our  pride  for  a  span, 

Say  !  vanity  are  they  ?  vexation  of  spirit  ? 

Not  so,  since  they  serve  for  a  time  horse  and  man. 
35 


Racing  Rhymes 

They  serve  for  a  time,  and  they  make  life  worth 

living, 

In  spite  of  life's  troubles  —  't  is  vain  to  despond ; 
Oh,  man  !  we  at  least,  we  enjoy,  with  thanksgiving, 
God's  gifts  on  this  earth,  though  we  look  not 
beyond. 

You  sin,  and  you  suffer,  and  we,  too,  find  sorrow, 
Perchance  through  your  sin  —  yet  it  soon  will  be 

o'er  ; 

We  labour  to-day,  and  we  slumber  to-morrow, 
Strong  horse  and  bold  rider  !  —and  who  knoweth 
more  ? 

In     our     barrack-square     shouted      Drill-sergeant 

M'Cluskie, 

The  roll  of  the  kettledrum  rapidly  ran, 
The  colonel  wheel'd  short,  speaking  once,  dry  and 

husky, 

«  Would  to  God  I  had  died  with  your  master,  old 
man  !  " 


THE   RACE 

ON  the  hill  they  are  crowding  together, 
In  the  stand  they  are  crushing  for  room, 
Like  midge-flies  they  swarm  on  the  heather, 

They  gather  like  bees  on  the  broom  ; 
They  flutter  like  moths  round  a  candle  — 

Stale  similes,  granted,  what  then? 
I  've  got  a  stale  subject  to  handle, 
A  very  stale  stump  of  a  pen. 

Hark  !  the  shuffle  of  feet  that  are  many, 

Of  voices  the  many-tongued  clang  — 
"  Has  he  had  a  bad  night?  "     "  Has  he  any 

Friends  left?  "  —  How  I  hate  your  turf  slang ; 
'T  is  stale  to  begin  with,  not  witty, 

But  dull  and  inclined  to  be  coarse, 
But  bad  men  can't  use  (more  's  the  pity) 

Good  words  when  they  slate  a  good  horse. 

Heu  I  heu  !  quantus  equis  (that 's  Latin 
For  "  bellows  to  mend  "  with  the  weeds), 

They  're  off !  lights  and  shades  !  silk  and  satin  ! 
A  rainbow  of  riders  and  steeds  ! 
37 


Racing  Rhymes 

And  one  shows  in  front,  and  another 

Goes  up  and  is  seen  in  his  place, 
Sic  transit  (more  Latin)  —  Oh  !  bother, 

Let 's  get  to  the  end  of  the  race. 

See,  they  come  round  the  last  turn  careering, 

Already  Tail's  colours  are  struck, 
And  the  green  in  the  vanguard  is  steering, 

And  the  red  "s  in  the  rear  of  the  ruck  ! 
Are  the  stripes  in  the  shade  doom'd  to  lie  long? 

Do  the  blue  stars  on  white  skies  wax  dim  ? 
Is  it  Tamworth  or  Smuggler  ?     'T  is  Bylong 

That  wins  —  either  Bylong  or  Tim. 

As  the  shell  through  the  breach  that  is  riven 

And  sapp'd  by  the  springing  of  mines, 
As  the  bolt  from  the  thunder-cloud  driven, 

That  levels  the  larches  and  pines, 
Through  yon  mass  parti-colour'd  that  dashes 

Goal-turn'd,  clad  in  many-hued  garb, 
From  rear  to  van,  surges  and  flashes 

The  yellow  and  black  of  The  Barb. 

Past  The  Fly,  falling  back  on  the  right,  and 

The  Gull,  giving  way  on  the  left, 
Past  Tamworth,  who  feels  the  whip  smite,  and 

Whose  sides  by  the  rowels  are  cleft ; 
38 


The  Race 

Where  Tim  and  the  chestnut  together 
Still  bear  of  the  battle  the  brunt, 

As  if  eight  stone  twelve  were  a  feather, 
He  comes  with  a  rush  to  the  front. 

Tim  Whiffler  may  yet  prove  a  Tartar, 

And  Bylong  's  the  horse  that  can  stay, 
But  Kean  is  in  trouble,  and  Carter 

Is  hard  on  the  satin-skinn'd  bay ; 
And  The  Barb  comes  away  unextended, 

Hard  held,  like  a  second  Eclipse, 
While  behind,  the  hoof-thunder  is  blended 

With  the  whistling  and  crackling  of  whips. 


EPILOGUE 

He  wins ;  yes,  he  wins  upon  paper, 

He  has  n't  yet  won  upon  turf, 
And  these  rhymes  are  but  moonshine  and  vapour, 

Air-bubbles  and  spume  from  the  surf. 
So  be  it,  at  least  they  are  given 

Free,  gratis,  for  just  what  they  're  worth, 
And  (whatever  there  may  be  in  heaven), 

There  's  little  worth  much  upon  earth. 
39 


Racing  Rhymes 

When,  with  satellites  round  them,  the  centre 

Of  all  eyes,  hard  press'd  by  the  crowd, 
The  pair,  horse  and  rider,  re-enter 

The  gate,  'mid  a  shout  long  and  loud, 
You  may  feel  as  you  might  feel,  just  landed 

Full  length  on  the  grass  from  a  clip 
Of  a  vicious  cross-counter,  right-handed, 

Or  upper-cut  whizzing  from  hip. 

And  that 's  not  so  bad  if  you  're  pick'd  up 

Discreetly,  and  carefully  nursed  ; 
Loose  teeth  by  the  sponge  are  soon  lick'd  up, 

And  next  time  you  may  get  home  first. 
Still  I  'm  not  sure  you  'd  like  it  exactly 

(Such  tastes  as  a  rule  are  acquired), 
And  you  '11  find  in  a  nutshell  this  fact  lie, 

Bruised  optics  are  not  much  admired. 

Do  I  bore  you  with  vulgar  allusions  ? 

Forgive  me,  I  speak  as  I  feel, 
I  've  ponder'd  and  made  my  conclusions  — 

As  the  mill  grinds  the  corn  to  the  meal ; 
So  man  striving  boldly  but  kindly, 

Ground  piecemeal  in  Destiny's  mill, 
At  his  best,  taking  punishment  kindly, 

Is  only  a  chopping-block  still. 
40 


The  Race 

Are  we  wise  ?     Our  abstruse  calculations 

Are  based  on  experience  long ; 
Are  we  sanguine  ?     Our  high  expectations 

Are  founded  on  hope  that  is  strong ; 
Thus  we  build  an  air-castle  that  crumbles 

And  drifts,  till  no  traces  remain, 
And  the  fool  builds  again  while  he  grumbles, 

And  the  wise  one  laughs,  building  again. 

"  How  came  they  to  pass,  these  rash  blunders, 

These  false  steps  so  hard  to  defend?" 
Our  friend  puts  the  question  and  wonders ; 

We  laugh  and  reply,  "  Ah  !  my  friend, 
Could  you  trace  the  first  stride  falsely  taken, 

The  distance  misjudged,  where  or  how, 
When  you  pick'd  yourself  up,  stunn'd  and  shaken, 

At  the  fence  'twixt  the  turf  and  the  plough?" 

In  the  jar  of  the  panel  rebounding  ! 

In  the  crash  of  the  splintering  wood  ! 
In  the  ears  to  the  earth  shock  resounding ! 

In  the  eyes  flashing  fire  and  blood  ! 
In  the  quarters  above  you  revolving  ! 

In  the  sods  underneath  heaving  high  ! 
There  was  little  to  aid  you  in  solving 

Such  questions  —  the  how  or  the  why. 


Racing  Rhymes 

And  Destiny,  steadfast  in  trifles, 

Is  steadfast  for  better  or  worse 
In  great  things,  it  crushes  and  stifles, 

And  swallows  the  hopes  that  we  nurse. 
Men  wiser  than  we  are  may  wonder, 

When  the  future  they  cling  to  so  fast, 
To  the  roll  of  that  Destiny's  thunder, 

Goes  down  with  the  wrecks  of  the  past. 

The  past !  the  dead  past !  that  has  swallow'd 

All  the  honey  of  life  and  the  milk, 
Brighter  dreams  than  mere  pastimes  we  "ve  follow'd, 

Better  things  than  our  scarlet  or  silk ; 
Aye,  and  worse  things  —  that  past  is  it  really 

Dead  to  us  who  again  and  again 
Feel  sharply,  hear  plainly,  see  clearly 

Past  days  with  their  joy  and  their  pain  ? 

Like  corpses  embalm'd  and  unburied 

They  lie,  and  in  spite  of  our  will, 
Our  souls,  on  the  wings  of  thought  carried, 

Revisit  their  sepulchres  still ; 
Down  the  channels  of  mystery  gliding, 

They  conjure  strange  tales,  rarely  read, 
Of  the  priests  of  dead  Pharaohs  presiding 

At  mystical  feasts  of  the  dead. 
42 


The  Race 

Weird  pictures  arise,  quaint  devices, 

Rude  emblems,  baked  funeral  meats, 
Strong  incense,  rare  wines,  and  rich  spices, 

The  ashes,  the  shrouds,  and  the  sheets ; 
Does  our  thraldom  fall  short  of  completeness 

For  the  magic  of  a  charnel-house  charm, 
And  the  flavour  of  a  poisonous  sweetness, 

And  the  odour  of  a  poisonous  balm  ? 

And  the  links  of  the  past  —  but,  no  matter, 

For  I  'm  getting  beyond  you,  I  guess, 
And  you'll  call  me  "as  mad  as  a  hatter" 

If  my  thoughts  I  too  freely  express ; 
I  subjoin  a  quotation,  pray  learn  it, 

And  with  the  aid  of  your  lexicon  tell  us 
The  meaning  thereof,  "  Res  discernit 

Sapiens,  quas  confundit  asellus." 

Already  green  hillocks  are  swelling, 

And  combing  white  locks  on  the  bar, 
Where  a  dull,  droning  murmur  is  telling 

Of  winds  that  have  gather' d  afar ; 
Thus  we  know  not  the  day,  nor  the  morrow, 

Nor  yet  what  the  night  may  bring  forth, 
Nor  the  storm,  nor  the  sleep,  nor  the  sorrow, 

Nor  the  strife,  nor  the  rest,  nor  the  wrath. 
43 


Racing  Rhymes 

Yet  the  skies  are  still  tranquil  and  starlit, 

The  sun  'twixt  the  wave  and  the  west 
Dies  in  purple,  and  crimson,  and  scarlet, 

And  gold ;  let  us  hope  for  the  best, 
Since  again  from  the  earth  his  effulgence 

The  darkness  and  damp-dews  shall  wipe, 
Kind  reader,  extend  your  indulgence 

To  this  the  last  lay  of  "  The  Pipe." 


44 


WOLF  AND   HOUND 

The  kills  like  giants  at  a  hunting  lay, 
Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay. 

BROWNING. 

YOU  'LL  take  my  tale  with  a  little  salt, 
But  it  needs  none,  nevertheless ; 
I  was  foil'd  completely,  fairly  at  fault, 

Dishearten'd,  too,  I  confess. 
At  the  splitters'  tent  I  had  seen  the  track 

Of  horse- hoofs  fresh  on  the  sward, 
And  though  Darby  Lynch  and  Donovan  Jack 

(Who  could  swear  through  a  ten-inch  board) 
Solemnly  swore  he  had  not  been  there, 

I  was  just  as  sure  that  they  lied, 

For  to  Darby  all  that  is  foul  was  fair, 

And  Jack  for  his  life  was  tried. 

We  had  run  him  for  seven  miles  and  more 

As  hard  as  our  nags  could  split ; 
At  the  start  they  were  all  too  weary  and  sore, 

And  his  was  quite  fresh  and  fit 
45 


Racing  Rhymes 

Young  Marsden's  pony  had  had  enough 

On  the  plain,  where  the  chase  was  hot ; 
We  breasted  the  swell  of  the  Bittern's  Bluff, 

And  Mark  could  n't  raise  a  trot ; 
When  the  sea,  like  a  splendid  silver  shield, 

To  the  south-west  suddenly  lay ; 
On  the  brow  of  the  Beetle  the  chestnut  reel'd, 

And  I  bid  good-bye  to  M'Crea  — 
And  I  was  alone  when  the  mare  fell  lame, 

With  a  pointed  flint  in  her  shoe, 
On  the  Stony  Flats :  I  had  lost  the  game, 

And  what  was  a  man  to  do  ? 

I  turned  away  with  no  fixed  intent 

And  headed  for  Hawthorndell ; 
I  could  neither  eat  in  the  splitters'  tent 

Nor  drink  at  the  splitters'  well ; 
I  knew  that  they  gloried  in  my  mishap, 

And  I  cursed  them  between  my  teeth  — 
A  blood-red  sunset  through  Brayton's  Gap 

Flung  a  lurid  fire  on  the  heath. 

Could  I  reach  the  Dell  ?     I  had  little  reck, 
And  with  scarce  a  choice  of  my  own 

I  threw  the  reins  on  Miladi's  neck  — 
I  had  freed  her  foot  from  the  stone. 
46 


Wolf  and  Hound 

That  season  most  of  the  swamps  were  dry, 

And  after  so  hard  a  burst 
In  the  sultry  noon  of  so  hot  a  sky 

She  was  keen  to  appease  her  thirst  — 
Or  by  instinct  urged  or  impelled  by  fate  — 

I  care  not  to  solve  these  things  — 
Certain  it  is  that  she  took  me  straight 

To  the  Warrigal  water  springs. 

I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  recall  the  ground 

As  though  it  were  yesterday  — 
With  a  shelf  of  the  low,  grey  rocks  girt  round, 

The  springs  in  their  basin  lay ; 
Woods  to  the  east  and  wolds  to  the  north 

In  the  sundown  sullenly  bloom'd ; 
Dead  black  on  a  curtain  of  crimson  cloth 

Large  peaks  to  the  westward  loomed. 
I  led  Miladi  through  weed  and  sedge, 

She  leisurely  drank  her  fill ; 
There  was  something  close  to  the  water's  edge, 

And  my  heart  with  one  leap  stood  still, 

For  a  horse's  shoe  and  a  rider's  boot 
Had  left  clean  prints  on-  the  clay ; 

Some  one  had  watered  his  beast  on  foot. 
'T  was  he  —  he  had  gone.     Which  way  ? 
47 


Racing  Rhymes 

Then  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  faced  me  fair, 
As  I  turned  and  fronted  the  rocks ; 

So,  at  last,  I  had  pressed  the  wolf  to  his  lair, 
I  had  run  to  his  earth  the  fox. 

I  thought  so.    Perhaps  he  was  resting.    Perhaps 

He  was  waiting,  watching  for  me. 
I  examined  all  my  revolver  caps, 

I  hitched  my  mare  to  a  tree  — 
I  had  sworn  to  have  him,  alive  or  dead, 

And  to  give  him  a  chance  was  loth ; 
He  knew  his  life  had  been  forfeited  — 

He  had  even  heard  of  my  oath. 
In  my  stocking'd  soles  to  the  shelf  I  crept, 

I  crawl'd  safe  into  the  cave  — 
All  silent  —  if  he  was  there  he  slept 

Not  there.     All  dark  as  the  grave. 

Through  the  crack  I  could  hear  the  leaden  hiss  ! 

See  the  livid  face  through  the  flame  ! 
How  strange  it  seems  that  a  man  should  miss 

When  his  life  depends  on  his  aim  ! 
There  could  n't  have  been  a  better  light 

For  him,  nor  a  worse  for  me. 
We  were  coop'd  up,  caged  like  beasts  for  a  fight, 

And  dumb  as  dumb  beasts  were  we. 
48 


Wolf  and  Hound 

Flash  !  flash  !  bang  !  bang  !  and  we  blazed  away, 

And  the  grey  roof  reddened  and  rang ; 
Flash  !  flash  !  and  I  felt  his  bullet  flay 

The  tip  of  my  ear.     Flash  !  bang  ! 
Bang  !  flash  !  and  my  pistol  arm  fell  broke ; 

I  struck  with  my  left  hand  then  — 
Struck  at  a  corpse  through  a  cloud  of  smoke  — 

I  had  shot  him  dead  in  his  den  ! 


49 


THE  SICK  STOCKRIDER 

HOLD  hard,  Ned  !  Lift  me  down  once  more, 
and  lay  me  in  the  shade. 
Old  man,  you  Ve  had  your  work  cut  out 

to  guide 
Both  horses,  and  to  hold  me  in  the  saddle  when  I 

sway'd, 

All  through  the  hot,  slow,  sleepy,  silent  ride. 
The  dawn  at  "Moorabinda"  was  a  mist  rack  dull 

and  dense, 

The  sunrise  was  a  sullen,  sluggish  lamp ; 
I  was  dozing  in  the  gateway  at  Arbuthnot's  bound'ry 

fence, 

I  was  dreaming  on  the  Limestone  cattle  camp. 
We  crossed  the  creek  at  Carricksford,  and  sharply 
through  the  haze, 

And  suddenly  the  sun  shot  flaming  forth ; 
To  southward  lay  "  Katawa,"  with  the  sandpeaks  all 

ablaze, 

And  the  flush'd  fields  of  Glen    Lomond   lay  to 
north. 

50 


The  Sick  Stockrider 

Now  westward  winds  the  bridle  path  that  leads  to 

Lindisfarm, 

And  yonder  looms  the  double-headed  Bluff; 
From  the  far  side  of  the  first  hill,  when  the  skies  are 

clear  and  calm, 

You  can  see  Sylvester's  woolshed  fair  enough. 
Five  miles  we  used  to  call  it  from  our  homestead  to 

the  place 
Where  the  big  tree  spans  the  roadway  like  an 

arch ; 
'Twas  here  we  ran  the  dingo  down  that  gave  us 

such  a  chase 
Eight  years  ago  —  or  was  it  nine  ?  —  last  March. 

'T  was  merry  in  the  glowing  morn,  among  the  gleam- 
ing grass, 

To  wander  as  we  Ve  wandered  many  a  mile, 
And  blow  the  cool  tobacco  cloud,  and  watch  the 

white  wreaths  pass, 

Sitting  loosely  in  the  saddle  all  the  while. 
'T  was  merry  'mid  the  black  woods,  when  we  spied 

the  station  roofs, 

To  wheel  the  wild  scrub  cattle  at  the  yard, 
With  a  running  fire  of  stockwhips  and  a  fiery  run  of 

hoofs ; 

Oh  !  the  hardest  day  was  never  then  too  hard  ! 
5' 


Racing  Rhymes 

Aye  !  we  had  a  glorious  gallop  after  "  Starlight "  and 

his  gang, 

When  they  bolted  from  Sylvester's  on  the  flat ; 
How  the  sun-dried  reed-beds   crackled,    how   the 

flint- strewn  ranges  rang 

To  the  strokes  of  "  Mountaineer  "  and  "  Acrobat." 
Hard  behind  them  in  the  timber,  harder  still  across 

the  heath, 
Close  beside  them  through  the  tea-tree  scrub  we 

dash'd ; 
And  the  golden-tinted  fern  leaves,  how  they  rustled 

underneath  ! 
And  the  honeysuckle  osiers,  how  they  crash'd  ! 

We  led  the  hunt  throughout,  Ned,  on  the  chestnut 

and  the  grey, 

And  the  troopers  were  three  hundred  yards  behind, 
While  we  emptied  our  six-shooters  on  the   bush- 
rangers at  bay, 

In  the  creek  with  stunted  box-tree  for  a  blind  ! 
There  you  grappled  with  the  leader,  man  to  man 

and  horse  to  horse, 

And  you  roll'd  together  when  the  chestnut  rear'd  ; 
He  blazed  away  and  missed   you  in  that  shallow 

watercourse  — 
A  narrow  shave  —  his  powder  singed  your  beard  ! 

52 


The  Sick  Stockrider 

In  these  hours  when  life  is  ebbing,  how  those  days 

when  life  was  young 
Come  back  to  us ;  how  clearly  I  recall 
Even  the  yarns  Jack  Hall  invented,  and  the  songs 

Jem  Roper  sung ; 

And  where  are  now  Jem  Roper  and  Jack  Hall  ? 
Aye  !  nearly  all  our  comrades  of  the  old  colonial 

school, 

Our  ancient  boon  companions,  Ned,  are  gone ; 
Hard  livers  for  the  most  part,  somewhat  reckless  as 

a  rule, 
It  seems  that  you  and  I  are  left  alone. 

There  was  Hughes,  who  got  in  trouble  through  that 

business  with  the  cards, 
It  matters  little  what  became  of  him  ; 
But  a  steer  ripp'd  up  MacPherson  in  the  Cooraminta 

yards, 

And  Sullivan  was  drown'd  at  Sink-or-swim  ; 
And  Mostyn  —  poor  Frank  Mostyn  —  died  at  last  a 

fearful  wreck, 

In  "  the  horrors,"  at  the  Upper  Wandinong, 
And  Carisbrooke,  the  rider,  at  the  Horsefall  broke 

his  neck, 

Faith  !    the  wonder  was   he  saved    his  neck   so 
long  ! 

53 


Racing  Rhymes 

Ah  !  those  days  and  nights  we  squandered  at  the 

Logans'  in  the  glen  — 

The  Logans,  man  and  wife,  have  long  been  dead. 
Elsie's  tallest  girl  seems  taller  than  your  little  Elsie 

then; 
And  Ethel  is  a  woman  grown  and  wed. 

I  've   had  my  share  of  pastime,  and  I  Ve  done  my 

share  of  toil, 

And  life  is  short  —  the  longest  life  a  span ; 
I  care  not  now  to  tarry  for  the  corn  or  for  the  oil, 
Or  for  the  wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart  of 

man. 
For  good  undone  and  gifts  misspent  and  resolutions 

vain, 

Tis  somewhat  late  to  trouble.     This  I  know  — 
I  should  live  the  same  life  over,  if  I  had  to  live 

again ; 
And  the  chances  are  I  go  where  most  men  go. 

The  deep  blue  skies  wax  dusky,  and  the  tall  green 

trees  grow  dim, 

The  sward  beneath  me  seems  to  heave  and  fall ; 
And  sickly,  smoky  shadows  through  the  sleepy  sun- 
light swim, 

And  on  the  very  sun's  face  weave  their  pall. 
54 


The  Sick  Stockrider 

Let  me   slumber  in  the  hollow   where    the   wattle 

blossoms  wave, 

With  never  stone  or  rail  to  fence  my  bed ; 
Should  the   sturdy  station  children  pull   the  bush 

flowers  on  my  grave, 
I  may  chance  to  hear  them  romping  overhead. 


55 


BANKER'S   DREAM 

OF  chases  and  courses  dogs  dream,  so  do 
horses  — 
Last  night  I  was  dozing  and  dreaming, 
The  crowd  and  the  bustle  were  there,  and  the  rustle 
Of  the  silk  in  the  autumn  sky  gleaming. 

The  stand  throng'd  with  faces,  the  broadcloth  and 
laces, 

The  booths,  and  the  tents,  and  the  cars, 
The  bookmakers'  jargon,  for  odds  making  bargain, 

The  nasty  stale  smell  of  cigars. 

We  formed  into  line,  'neath  the  merry  sunshine, 

Near  the  logs  at  the  end  of  the  railing ; 
"  Are  you  ready,  boys  ?     Go  !  "  cried  the  starter, 

and  low 

Sank  the  flag,  and  away  we  went  sailing. 
56 


Banker's  Dream 

In  the  van  of  the  battle  we  heard  the  stones  rattle, 
Some  slogging  was  done,  but  no  slaughter, 

A  shout  from  the  stand,  and  the  whole  of  our  band 
Skimm'd  merrily  over  the  water. 


Two   fences    we    clear'd,   and    the    roadway   we 

near'd, 

When  three  of  our  troop  came  to  trouble ; 
Like  a  bird  on  the  wing,  or  a  stone  from  a  sling, 
Flew  Cadger,  first  over  the  double. 
57 


Racing  Rhymes 

And  Western  was  there,  head  and  tail  in  the  air, 
And  Pondon  was  there,  too  —  what  noodle 

Could  so  name  a  horse  ?     I  should  feel  some  remorse 
If  I  gave  such  a  name  to  a  poodle. 

In  and  out  of  the  lane,  to  the  racecourse  again, 

Craig's  pony  was  first,  I  was  third, 
And  Ingleside  lit  in  my  tracks,  with  the  bit 

In  his  teeth,  and  came  up  "  like  a  bird." 

In  the  van  of  the  battle  we  heard  the  rails  rattle, 
Says  he,  "  Though  I  don't  care  for  shunning 

My  share  of  the  raps,  I  shall  look  out  for  gaps, 
When  the  light  weight's  away  with  the  running." 

At  the  fence  just  ahead,  the  outsider  still  led, 
The  chestnut  play'd  follow  my  leader, 

Oh  !  the  devil  a  gap,  he  went  into  it  slap, 
And  he  and  his  jock  took  a  header. 

Says  Ingleside,  "Mate,  should  the  pony  go  straight. 

You  Ve  no  time  to  stop  or  turn  restive ;  " 
Says  I,   "Who   means  to  stop?    I    shall   go  till  I 

drop ;  " 

Says  he,  "  Go  it,  old  cuss,  gay  and  festive." 
58 


Banker's  Dream 

The  fence  stiff  and  tall,  just  beyond  the  log  wall, 
We  cross'd,  and  the  walls,  and  the  water,  — 

I  took  off  too  near,  a  small  made  fence  to  clear, 
And  just  touch'd  the  grass  with  my  snorter. 

At  the  next  post  and  rail  up  went  Western's  bang 

tail, 
And  down  (by  the  very  same  token) 


To  earth  went  his  nose,  for  the  panel  he  chose 
Stood  firm  and  refused  to  be  broken. 

I  dreamt  some  one  said  that  the  bay  would  have  made 
The  race  safe,  if  he  'd  stood  a  while  longer ; 

^he  had,  —  but,  like  if,  there  the  panel  stands  stiff — 
He  stood,  but  the  panel  stood  stronger. 
59 


Racing  Rhymes 

In  and  out  of  the  road,  with  a  clear  lead  still  show'd 

The  violet  fluted  with  amber  ; 
Says  Johnson,  "  Old  man,  catch  him  now  if  you  can, 

'T  is  the  second  time  round,  you  '11  remember." 


At  the  road  once  again,  pulling  hard  on  the  rein, 
Craig's  pony  popp'd  in  and  popp'd  out ; 

I  followed  like  smoke,  and  the  pace  was  no  joke, 
For  his  friends  were  beginning  to  shout. 

And  Ingleside  came  to  my  side,  strong  and  game, 
And  once  he  appear'd  to  outstrip  me, 

But  I  felt  the  steel  gore,  and  I  shot  to  the  fore, 
Only  Cadger  seem'd  likely  to  whip  me. 

In  the  van  of  the  battle  I  heard  the  logs  rattle, 
His  stroke  never  seem'd  to  diminish, 

And  thrice  I  drew  near  him,  and  thrice  he  drew  clear, 
For  the  weight  served  him  well  at  the  finish. 
60 


Banker's  Dream 

Ha  !  Cadger  goes  down,  see,  he  stands  on  his  crown — 
Those  rails  take  a  power  of  clouting  — 

A  long  sliding  blunder  —  he  's  up  —  well,  I  wonder 
If  now  it 's  all  over  but  shouting. 

All  loosely  he  's  striding,  the  amateur  's  riding 

All  loosely,  some  reverie  lock'd  in 
Of  a  "  vision  in  smoke,"  or  a  "  wayfaring  bloke," 

His  poetical  rubbish  concocting. 

Now  comes  from  afar  the  faint  cry,  "  Here  they  are," 

"  The  violet  winning  with  ease," 
"  Fred  goes  up  like  a  shot,"  "  Does  he  catch  him  or 
not?" 

"  Level  money,  I  '11  take  the  cerise." 

To  his  haunches  I  spring,  and  my  muzzle  I  bring 
To  his  flank,  to  his  girth,  to  his  shoulder ; 

Through  the  shouting  and  yelling  I  hear  my  name 

swelling, 
The  hearts  of  my  backers  grow  bolder. 

Neck  and  neck  !  head  and  head  !  staring  eye  !  nos- 
tril spread  ! 

Girth  and  stifle  laid  close  to  the  ground  ! 
Stride  for  stride  !   stroke  for  stroke !   through  one 

hurdle  we  Ve  broke  ! 

On  the  splinters  we  Ve  lit  with  one  bound. 
61 


Racing  Rhymes 

And  "  Banker  for  choice  "  is  the  cry,  and  one  voice 
Screams,  "  Six  to  four  once  upon  Banker  ;  " 

"Banker  wins,"  "Banker's  beat,"  "Cadger  wins," 

"A  dead  heat"  — 
"  Ah  !  there  goes  Fred's  whalebone  a  flanker." 

Springs  the  whip  with  a  crack  !  nine  stone  ten  on 
his  back, 

Fit  and  light  he  can  race  like  the  devil ; 
I  draw  past  him  —  't  is  vain  ;  he  draws  past  me  again, 

Springs  the  whip  !  and  again  we  are  level. 

Steel  and  cord  do  their  worst,  now  my  head  struggles 

first! 

That  tug  my  last  spurt  has  expended  — 
Nose  to  nose  !  lip  to  lip  !  from  the  sound  of  the 

whip 
He  strains  to  the  utmost  extended. 

How  they  swim  through  the  air,  as  we  roll  to  the 

chair, 

Stand,  faces,  and  railings  flit  past ; 
Now  I  spring  .  .  . 

from  my  lair,  with  a  snort  and  a  stare, 
Rous'd  by  Fred  with  my  supper  at  last. 

62 


THE   FIELDS   OF   COLERAINE 

ON  the  fields  of  Col'raine  there  '11  be  labour 
in  vain 
Before  the  Great  Western  is  ended, 
The  nags  will  have  toil'd,  and  the  silks  will  be  soiFd, 
And  the  rails  will  require  to  be  mended. 

For  the  gullies  are  deep,  and  the  uplands  are  steep, 
And  the  mud  will  of  purls  be  the  token, 

And  the  tough  stringey-bark,  that  invites  us  to  lark, 
With  impunity  may  not  be  broken. 

Though  Ballarat  's  fast,  and  they  say  he  can  last, 

And  that  may  be  granted  hereafter, 
Yet  the  judge  's  decision  to  the  Border  division 

Will  bring  neither  shouting  nor  laughter. 

And  Blueskin,  I  've  heard  that  he  goes  like  a  bird, 
And  I  'm  told  that  to  back  him  would  pay  me  ; 

He  's  a  good  bit  of  stuff,  but  not  quite  good  enough, 
"  Non  licuit  credere  fama." 
63 


Racing  Rhymes 

Alfred  ought  to  be  there,  we  all  of  us  swear 
By  the  blood  of  King  Alfred,  his  sire  ; 

He  's  not  the  real  jam,  by  the  blood  of  his  dam, 
So  I  sha'n't  put  him  down  as  a  flyer. 

Now,  Hynam,  my  boy,  I  wish  you  great  joy, 
I  know  that  when  fresh  you  can  jump,  sir ; 

But  you  '11  scarce  be  in  clover  when  you  're  ridden 

all  over, 
And  punish'd  from  shoulder  to  rump,  sir. 

Archer  goes  like  a  shot,  they  can  put  on  their  pot, 

And  boil  it  to  cover  expenses ; 
Their  pot  will  boil  over,  the  run  of  his  Dover 

He  '11  never  earn  over  big  fences. 

There  's  a  horse  in  the  race,  with  a  blaze  on  his  face, 
And  we  know  he  can  gallop  a  docker ; 

He  's  proved  himself  stout,  of  his  speed  there  's  no 

doubt, 
And  his  jumping 's  according  to  Cocker. 

When    Hynam 's   outstripp'd,  and   when  Alfred   is 

whipp'd, 

To  keep  him  in  sight  of  the  leaders, 
While  Blueskin  runs  true,  but  his  backers  looked 

blue, 
For  his  rider  's  at  work  with  the  bleeders ; 

64 


The  Fields  of  Coleraine 

When  his  carcass  of  beef  brings  "the  bullock"  to 

grief, 

And  the  rush  of  the  tartan  is  ended ; 
When   Archer  's   in   trouble  —  who  's   that   pulling 

double, 
And  taking  his  leaps  unextended? 

He  wins  all  the  way,  and  the  rest  —  sweet,  they  say, 

Is  the  smell  of  the  newly-turn'd  plough,  friend  ; 
But  you  smell  it  too  close  when  it  stops  eyes  and 

nose, 

And  you  can't  tell  your  horse  from  your  cow, 
friend. 


A  HUNTING  SONG 

HERE  'S  a  health  to  every  sportsman,  be  he 
stableman  or  lord, 
If  his  heart  be  true,  I  care  not  what  his 

pocket  may  afford ; 
And   may   he   ever   pleasantly   each    gallant   sport 

pursue, 
If  he  takes  his  liquor  fairly,  and  his  fences  fairly,  too. 

He  cares  not  for  the  bubbles  of  Fortune's  fickle  tide, 
Who  like  Bendigo  can  battle,  and  like  Olliver  can 
ride. 

66 


A  Hunting  Song 

He  laughs  at  those  who  caution,  at  those  who  chide 

he  '11  frown, 
As  he  clears  a  five-foot  paling,  or  he  knocks  a  peeler 

down. 

The  dull,  cold  world  may  blame  us,  boys  !  but  what 

care  we  the  while, 
If  coral  lips  will  cheer  us,  and  bright  eyes  on  us 

smile  ? 

For  beauty's  fond  caresses  can  most  tenderly  repay 
The  weariness  and  trouble  of  many  an  anxious  day. 

Then  fill  your  glass,  and  drain  it,  too,  with  all  your 

heart  and  soul, 
To  the  best  of  sports  —  The  Fox-hunt,  The  Fair 

Ones,  and  The  Bowl, 
To  a  stout  heart  in  adversity  through  every  ill  to 

steer, 
And  when  fortune   smiles  a  score  of  friends   like 

those  around  us  here. 


BY   FLOOD   AND   FIELD 

[A   LEGEND   OF   THE    COTTISWOLDJ 

"  They  have  saddled  a  hundred  milk-white  steeds, 
They  have  bridled  a  hundred  black." 

OLD  BALLAD. 
"  He  turned  in  his  saddle,  now  follow  who  dare. 

I  ride  for  my  country,  quoth.  .  .  ." 

LAWRENCE. 

I    REMEMBER  the  lowering  wintry  morn, 
And  the  mist  on  the  Cotswold  hills, 
Where  I  once  heard  the  blast  of  the  hunts- 
man's horn, 

Not  far  from  the  seven  rills. 
Jack  Esdale  was  there,  and  Hugh  St.  Clair, 

Bob  Chapman,  and  Andrew  Kerr, 
And  big  George  Griffiths  on  Devil- May-Care, 

And  —  black  Tom  Oliver. 
And  one  who  rode  on  a  dark  brown  steed, 

Clean  jointed,  sinewy,  spare, 
With  the  lean  game  head  of  the  Blacklock  breed, 
70 


By  Flood  and  Field 

And  the  resolute  eye  that  loves  the  lead, 
And  the  quarters  massive  and  square  — 

A  tower  of  strength,  with  a  promise  of  speed 
(There  was  Celtic  blood  in  the  pair). 


I  remember  how  merry  a  start  we  got, 

When  the  red  fox  broke  from  the  gorse, 
In  a  country  so  deep,  with  a  scent  so  hot, 

That  the  hound  could  outpace  the  horse ; 
I  remember  how  few  in  the  front  rank  show'd, 

How  endless  appeared  the  tail, 
On  the  brown  hill  side,  where  we  cross'd  the  road, 

And  headed  for  the  vale. 


Racing  Rhymes 

The  dark  brown  steed  on  the  left  was  there, 

On  the  right  was  a  dappled  grey, 
And  between  the  pair,  on  a  chestnut  mare, 

The  duffer  who  writes  this  lay. 
What  business  had  "  this  child  "  there  to  ride? 

But  little  or  none  at  all ; 
Yet  I  held  my  own  for  a  while  in  "  the  pride 

That  goeth  before  a  fall." 
Though  rashness  can  hope  for  but  one  result, 

We  are  heedless  when  fate  draws  nigh  us, 
And  the  maxim  holds  good,  "  Quern  perdere  vult 

Deus,  dementat  prius" 


The  right  hand  man  to  the  left  hand  said, 

As  down  in  the  vale  we  went, 
"  Harden  your  heart  like  a  millstone,  Ned, 

And  set  your  face  as  flint ; 
Solid  and  tall  is  the  rasping  wall 

That  stretches  before  us  yonder ; 
You  must  have  it  at  speed  or  not  at  all, 

T  were  better  to  halt  than  to  ponder, 
For  the  stream  runs  wide  on  the  take-off  side, 

And  washes  the  clay  bank  under ; 
Here  goes  for  a  pull,  't  is  a  madman's  ride, 

And  a  broken  neck  if  you  blunder." 
72 


By  Flood  and  Field 

No  word  in  reply  his  comrade  spoke, 

Nor  waver'd,  nor  once  looked  round, 
But  I  saw  him  shorten  his  horse's  stroke 

As  we  splash'd  through  the  marshy  ground ; 
I  remember  the  laugh  that  all  the  while 

On  his  quiet  features  play'd  :  — 
So  he  rode  to  his  death,  with  that  careless  smile, 

In  the  van  of  the  "  Light  Brigade ;  " 

So  stricken  by  Russian  grape,  the  cheer 

Rang  out,  while  he  toppled  back, 
From  the  shattered  lungs  as  merry  and  clear 

As  it  did  when  it  roused  the  pack. 
Let  never  a  tear  his  memory  stain, 

Give  his  ashes  never  a  sigh, 
One  of  many  who  perished,  NOT  IN  VAIN, 

AS  A  TYPE  OF  OUR  CHIVALRY  — 

I  remember  one  thrust  he  gave  to  his  hat, 

And  two  to  the  flanks  of  the  brown, 
And  still  as  a  statue  of  old  he  sat, 

And  he  shot  to  the  front,  hands  down ; 
I  remember  the  snort  and  the  stag-like  bound 

Of  the  steed  six  lengths  to  the  fore, 
And  the  laugh  of  the  rider,  while  landing  sound, 
He  turned  in  his  saddle  and  glanced  around ; 

I  remember  —  but  little  more, 
73 


Racing  Rhymes 

Save  a  bird's-eye  gleam  of  the  dashing  stream, 

A  jarring  thud  on  the  wall, 
A  shock  and  the  blank  of  a  nightmare's  dream 

I  was  down  with  a  stunning  fall. 


74 


IN   UTRUMQUE    PARATUS 
[A  LOGICAL  DISCUSSION] 

"  Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad  ! 

And  round  the  world  away  ! 
Young-  blood  will  have  its  course,  lad ! 
And  every  dog  his  day  !  " 

C.  KlNGSLKY. 

THERE  'S  a  formula  which  the  west  coun- 
try clowns 
Once  used,  ere  their  blows  fell  thick, 
At  the  fairs  on  the  Devon  and  Cornwall  downs, 

In  their  bouts  with  the  single- stick. 
You  may  read  a  moral,  not  far  amiss, 

If  you  care  to  moralise, 
In  the  crossing  guard,  where  the  ash-plants  kiss, 

To  the  words  "  God  spare  our  eyes." 
No  game  was  ever  yet  worth  a  rap 

For  a  rational  man  to  play, 
Into  which  no  accident,  no  mishap, 
Could  possibly  find  its  way. 

If  you  hold  the  willow,  a  shooter  from  Wills 

May  transform  you  into  a  hopper, 
And  the  football  meadow  is  rife  with  spills, 

If  you  feel  disposed  for  a  cropper ; 
75 


Racing  Rhymes 

In  a  rattling  gallop  with  hound  and  horse 

You  may  chance  to  reverse  the  medal 
On   the    sward,   with    the    saddle    your   loins 
across, 

And  your  hunter's  loins  on  the  saddle ; 
In  the  stubbles  you  '11  find  it  hard  to  frame 

A  remonstrance  firm,  yet  civil, 
When  oft  as  "  our  mutual  friend  "  takes  aim, 
Long  odds  may  be  laid  on  the  rising  game, 

And  against  your  gaiters  level ; 
There 's  danger  even  where  fish  are  caught 

To  those  who  a  wetting  fear ; 
For  what 's  worth  having  must  aye  be  bought, 
And  sport 's  like  life  and  life  's  like  sport  — 

"  It  ain't  all  skittles  and  beer." 


The  honey  bag  lies  close  to  the  sting, 

The  rose  is  fenced  by  the  thorn, 
Shall  we  leave  to  others  their  gathering, 
And  turn  from  clustering  fruits  that  cling 

To  the  garden  wall  in  scorn? 
Albeit  those  purple  grapes  hang  high, 

Like  the  fox  in  the  ancient  tale, 
Let  us  pause  and  try,  ere  we  pass  them  by, 

Though  we,  like  the  fox,  may  fail. 


In  Utrumque  Paratus 

All  hurry  is  worse  than  useless ;  think 

On  the  adage,  "  'T  is  pace  that  kills ;  " 
Shun  bad  tobacco,  avoid  strong  drink, 

Abstain  from  Holloway's  Pills ; 
Wear    woollen    socks,    they  "re    the    best   you  '11 
find ; 

Beware  how  you  leave  off  flannel ; 
And,    whatever    you    do,    don't     change     your 
mind 

When  once  you  have  picked  your  panel  ; 
With  a  bank  of  cloud  in  the  south  south-east, 

Stand  ready  to  shorten  sail ; 
Fight  shy  of  a  corporation  feast ; 

Don't  trust  to  a  martingale  ; 
Keep  your  powder  dry,  and  shut  one  eye, 

Not  both,  when  you  touch  your  trigger ; 
Don't  stop  with  your  head  too  frequently 

(This  advice  ain't  meant  for  a  nigger)  ; 
Look  before  you  leap,  if  you  like,  but  if 

You  mean  leaping,  don't  look  long, 
Or  the  weakest  place  will  soon  grow  stiff, 

And  the  strongest  doubly  strong ; 
As  far  as  you  can,  to  every  man, 

Let  your  aid  be  freely  given, 
And  hit  out  straight,  't  is  your  shortest  plan, 

When  against  the  ropes  you  're  driven. 
77 


Racing  Rhymes 

Mere  pluck,  though  not  in  the  least  sublime, 

Is  wiser  than  blank  dismay, 
Since  "  No  sparrow  can  fall  before  its  time," 

And  we  're  valued  higher  than  they ; 
So  hope  for  the  best  and  leave  the  rest 

In  charge  of  a  stronger  hand, 
Like  the  honest  boors  in  the  far-off  west, 

With  the  formula  terse  and  grand. 

They  were  men  for  the  most  part  rough  and  rude, 

Dull  and  illiterate, 
But  they  nursed  no  quarrel,  they  cherished  no  feud, 

They  were  strangers  to  spite  and  hate ; 
In  a  kindly  spirit  they  took  theijr  stand, 

That  brothers  and  sons  might  learn 
How  a  man  should  uphold  the  sports  of  his  land, 
And  strike  his  best  with  a  strong  right  hand; 

And  take  his  strokes  in  return. 
"  'Twas  a  barbarous  practice,"  the  Quaker  cries, 

"  'Tis  a  thing  of  the  past,  thank  Heaven  "  — 
Keep  your  thanks  till  the  combative  instinct  dies 

With  the  taint  of  the  olden  leaven  ! 
Yes,  the  times  are  changed,  for  better  or  worse, 

The  prayer  that  no  harm  befall, 
Has  given  its  place  to  a  drunken  curse, 

And  the  manly  game  to  a  brawl. 
78 


In  Utrumque  Paratus 

Our  burdens  are  heavy,  our  natures  weak, 

Some  pastime  devoid  of  harm 
May  we  look  for?     "  Puritan  elder,  speak  !  " 
"  Yea,  friend,  peradventure  thou  mayest  seek 

Recreation  singing  a  psalm." 
If  I  did,  your  visage  so  grim  and  stern 

Would  relax  in  a  ghastly  smile, 
For  of  music  I  never  one  note  could  learn, 
And  my  feeble  minstrelsy  would  turn 

Your  chant  to  discord  vile. 


Tho'  the  Philistine's  mail  could  naught  avail, 

Nor  the  spear  like  a  weaver's  beam, 
There  are  episodes  yet  in  the  Psalmist's  tale, 
To  obliterate  which  his  poems  fail, 

Which  his  exploits  fail  to  redeem. 
Can  the  Hittite's  wrongs  forgotten  be  ? 
Does  HE  warble  " Non  nobis  Domine" 
With  his  monarch  in  blissful  concert,  free 

From  all  malice  to  flesh  inherent ; 
Zeruiah's  offspring,  who  served  so  well, 

Yet  between  the  horns  of  the  altar  fell  — 
Does  HIS  voice  the  "  Quid gloriaris  "  swell, 

Or  the  "  Quare  fremuerunt  ?  " 
It  may  well  be  thus  where  DAVID  sings, 
79 


Racing  Rhymes 

And  Uriah  joins  in  the  chorus, 
But  while  earth  to  earthy  matters  clings, 
Neither  you  nor  the  bravest  of  Judah's  kings 

As  a  pattern  can  stand  before  us. 


80 


LEX   TALIONIS 

[A  MORAL  DISCOURSE] 

TO  beasts  of  the  field,  and  fowls  of  the  air, 
And  fish  of  the  sea  alike, 
Man's  hand  is  ever  slow  to  spare, 
And  ever  ready  to  strike ; 
With  a  license  to  kill,  and  to  work  our  will, 

In  season  by  land  or  by  water, 
To  our  heart's  content  we  may  take  our  fill 
Of  the  joys  we  derive  from  slaughter. 

And  few,  I  reckon,  our  rights  gainsay 

In  this  world  of  rapine  and  wrong, 
Where  the  weak  and  the  timid  seem  lawful  prey 

For  the  resolute  and  the  strong ; 
Fins,  furs,  and  feathers,  they  are  and  were 

For  our  use  and  pleasure  created, 
We  can  shoot,  and  hunt,  and  angle,  and  snare, 

Unquestioned,  if  not  unsated. 
6  81 


Racing  Rhymes 

I  have  neither  the  will  nor  the  right  to  blame, 

Yet  to  many  (though  not  to  all) 
The  sweets  of  destruction  are  somewhat  tame, 

When  no  personal  risks  befall ; 


Our  victims  suffer  but  little,  we  trust 

(Mere  guess-work  and  blank  enigma)  — 
If  they  suffer  at  all,  our  field  sports  must 

Of  cruelty  bear  the  stigma. 
Shall  we,  hard-hearted  to  their  fates,  thus 

Soft-hearted  shrink  from  our  own, 
When  the  measure  we  mete  is  meted  to  us, 

When  we  reap  as  we  've  always  sown  ? 
82 


Lex  Talionis 

Shall  we  who  for  pastime  have  squandered  life, 
Who  are  styled  "  the  Lords  of  Creation," 

Recoil  from  our  chance  of  more  equal  strife, 
And  our  risk  of  retaliation? 


Though  short  is  the  dying  pheasant's  pain, 

Scant  pity  you  well  may  spare, 
And  the  partridge  slain  is  a  triumph  vain, 

And  a  risk  that  a  child  may  dare ; 
You  feel,  when  you  lower  the  smoking  gun, 

Some  ruth  for  yon  slaughtered  hare, 
And  hit  or  miss,  in  your  selfish  fun 

The  widgeon  has  little  share. 

But  you  Ve  no  remorseful  qualms  or  pangs 
When  you  kneel  by  the  grizzly's  lair, 

On  that  conical  bullet  your  sole  chance  hangs, 
'T  is  the  weak  one's  advantage  fair, 

And  the  shaggy  giant's  terrific  fangs 
Are  ready  to  crush  and  tear ; 
83 


Racing  Rhymes 

Should  you  miss,  one  vision  of  home  and  friends, 

Five  words  of  unfinished  prayer, 
Three  savage  knife  stabs,  so  your  sport  ends 
In  the  worrying  grapple  that  chokes  and  rends  ; 

Rare  sport,  at  least,  for  the  bear. 

Short  shrift !  sharp  fate  !  dark  doom  to  dree  ! 

Hard  struggle,  though  quickly  ending  ! 
At  home  or  abroad,  by  land  or  sea, 
In  peace  or  war,  sore  trials  must  be, 
And  worse  may  happen  to  you  or  to  me, 
For  none  are  secure,  and  none  can  flee 

From  a  destiny  impending. 

Ah  !  friend,  did  you  think  when  the  London  sank, 
Timber  by  timber,  plank  by  plank, 

In  a  cauldron  of  boiling  surf, 
How  alone  at  least,  with  never  a  flinch, 
In  a  rally  contested  inch  by  inch, 

You  could  fall  on  the  trampled  turf? 
When  a  livid  wall  of  the  sea  leaps  high, 
In  the  lurid  light  of  a  leaden  sky, 

And  bursts  on  the  quarter  railing ; 
While  the  howling  storm-gust  seems  to  vie 
With  the  crash  of  splintered  beams  that  fly, 
Yet  fails  too  oft  to  smother  the  cry 

Of  women  and  children  wailing? 
84 


Lex  Talionis 

Then  those  who  listen  in  sinking  ships, 

To  despairing  sobs  from  their  lov'd  one's  lips, 

Where  the  green  wave  thus  slowly  shatters, 
May  long  for  the  crescent-claw  that  rips 
The  bison  into  ribbons  and  strips, 

And  tears  the  strong  elk  to  tatters. 
Oh  !  sunderings  short  of  body  and  breath  ! 
Oh  !  "  battle  and  murder  and  sudden  death  !  " 

Against  which  the  Liturgy  preaches  ; 
By  the  will  of  a  just,  yet  a  merciful  Power, 
Less  bitter,  perchance,  in  the  mystic  hour, 
When  the  wings  of  the  shadowy  angel  lower, 

Than  man  in  his  blindness  teaches  ! 


FINIS   EXOPTATUS 

[A   METAPHYSICAL   SONG] 

"  There  's  something  in  this  world  amiss 
Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by." 

TENNYSON. 

BOOT  and  saddle,  see,  the  slanting 
Rays  begin  to  fall, 
Flinging  lights  and  colours  flaunting 
Through  the  shadows  tall. 
Onward  !  onward  !  must  we  travel? 

When  will  come  the  goal? 
Riddle  I  may  not  unravel, 
Cease  to  vex  my  soul. 

Harshly  break  those  peals  of  laughter 

From  the  jays  aloft, 
Can  we  guess  what  they  cry  after? 

We  have  heard  them  oft ; 
Perhaps  some  strain  of  rude  thanksgiving 

Mingles  in  their  song, 
Are  they  glad  that  they  are  living? 

Are  they  right  or  wrong? 
86 


Finis  Exoptatus 

Right,  't  is  joy  that  makes  them  call  so, 

Why  should  they  be  sad? 
Certes  !  we  are  living  also, 

Shall  not  we  be  glad  ? 
Onward  !  onward  !  must  we  travel  ? 

Is  the  goal  more  near? 
Riddle  we  may  not  unravel, 

Why  so  dark  and  drear? 


Yon  small  bird  his  hymn  outpouring 

On  the  branch  close  by, 
Recks  not  for  the  kestrel  soaring 

In  the  nether  sky, 
Though  the  hawk  with  wings  extended 

Poises  over  head, 
Motionless  as  though  suspended 

By  a  viewless  thread. 
See,  he  stoops,  nay,  shooting  forward 

With  the  arrow's  flight, 
Swift  and  straight  away  to  nor'ward 

Sails  he  out  of  sight. 
Onward  !  onward  !  thus  we  travel, 

Comes  the  goal  more  nigh? 
Riddle  we  may  not  unravel, 

Who  shall  make  reply? 
87 


Racing  Rhymes 

Eastward  !  in  the  pink  horizon, 

Fleecy  hillocks  shame 
This  dim  range  dull  earth  that  lies  on, 

Tinged  with  rosy  flame. 
Westward  !  as  a  stricken  giant 

Stoops  his  bloody  crest, 
And  though  vanquish'd,  frowns  defiant, 

Sinks  the  sun  to  rest. 
Distant,  yet  approaching  quickly, 

From  the  shades  that  lurk, 
Like  a  black  pall  gathers  thickly, 

Night,  when  none  may  work. 
Soon  our  restless  occupation 

Shall  have  ceas'd  to  be  ; 
Units  !  in  God's  vast  creation, 

Ciphers  !  what  are  we  ? 
Onward  !  onward  !  oh  !  faint-hearted  : 

Nearer  and  more  near 
Has  the  goal  drawn  since  we  started  ; 

Be  of  better  cheer. 


Preacher  !  all  forbearance  ask,  for 

All  are  worthless  found, 
Man  must  aye  take  man  to  task  for 

Faults  while  earth  goes  round. 
88 


Finis  Exoptatus 

On  this  dank  soil  thistles  muster, 

Thorns  are  broadcast  sown  ; 
Seek  not  figs  where  thistles  cluster, 

Grapes  where  thorns  have  grown. 

Sun  and  rain  and  dew  from  heaven, 

Light  and  shade  and  air, 
Heat  and  moisture  freely  given, 

Thorns  and  thistles  share. 
Vegetation  rank  and  rotten 

Feels  the  cheering  ray ; 
Not  uncared  for,  unforgotten, 

We,  too,  have  our  day. 

Unforgotten  !  though  we  cumber 

Earth,  we  work  His  will. 
Shall  we  sleep  through  night's  long  slumber 

Unforgotten  still? 
Onward  !  onward  !  toiling  ever, 

Weary  steps  and  slow, 
Doubting  oft,  despairing  never, 

To  the  goal  we  go  ! 


89 


CUI   BONO 

OH  !    wind    that  whistles   o'er   thorns   and 
thistles, 
Of  this  fruitful  earth  like  a  goblin  elf ; 
Why  should  he  labour  to  help  his  neighbour 

Who  feels  too  reckless  to  help  himself? 
The  wail  of  the  breeze  in  the  bending  trees 

Is  something  between  a  laugh  and  a  groan ; 
And  the  hollow  roar  of  the  surf  on  the  shore 

Is  a  dull,  discordant  monotone  ; 
I  wish  I  could  guess  what  sense  they  express, 

There  's  a  meaning,  doubtless,  in  every  sound, 
Yet  no  one  can  tell,  and  it  may  be  as  well  — 

Whom  would  it  profit  ?  —  The  world  goes  round  ! 

On  this  earth  so  rough,  we  know  quite  enough, 

And,  I  sometimes  fancy,  a  little  too  much ; 
The  sage  may  be  wiser  than  clown  or  than  kaiser, 

Is  he  more  to  be  envied  for  being  such? 
Neither  more  nor  less,  in  his  idleness 

The  sage  is  doom'd  to  vexation  sure ; 
The  kaiser  may  rule,  but  the  slippery  stool, 

That  he  calls  his  throne,  is  no  sinecure ; 
90 


Cui  Bono 

And  as  for  the  clown,  you  may  give  him  a  crown, 
Maybe  he  '11  thank  you,  and  maybe  not, 

And   before    you  can   wink,  he  may  spend    it  in 

drink  — 
To  whom  does  it  profit  ?  —  We  ripe  and  rot ! 

Yet  under  the  sun  much  work  is  done 

By  clown  and  kaiser,  by  serf  and  sage ; 
All  sow  and  some  reap,  and  few  gather  the  heap 

Of  the  garner'd  grain  of  a  by-gone  age. 
By  sea  or  by  soil  man  is  bound  to  toil, 

And  the  dreamer,  waiting  for  time  and  tide, 
For  awhile  may  shirk  his  share  of  the  work, 

But  he  grows  with  his  dream  dissatisfied ; 
He  may  climb  to  the  edge  of  the  beetling  ledge, 

Where  the  loose  crag  topples  and  well-nigh  reels 
'Neath  the  lashing  gale,  but  the  tonic  will  fail  — 

What  does  it  profit  ?  —  Wheels  within  wheels  ! 

Aye  !  work  we  must,  or  with  idlers  rust, 

And  eat  we  must  our  bodies  to  nurse  ; 
Some  folk  grow  fatter  —  what  does  it  matter  ? 

1  'm  blest  if  I  do  —  quite  the  reverse  ; 
"T  is  a  weary  round  to  which  we  are  bound, 

The  same  thing  over  and  over  again ; 
Much  toil  and  trouble,  and  a  glittering  bubble, 

That  rises  and  bursts,  is  the  best  we  gain ; 
91 


Racing  Rhymes 

And  we  murmur,  and  yet  't  is  certain  we  get 

What    good    we    deserve  —  can    we    hope    for 

more  ?  — 
They  are    roaring,   those  waves,   in   their  echoing 

caves  — 
To  whom  do  they  profit  ?  —  Let  them  roar  ! 


92 


WORMWOOD   AND   NIGHTSHADE 

THE  troubles  of  life  are  many, 
The  pleasures  of  life  are  few ; 
When  we  sat  in  the  sunlight,  Annie, 
I  dreamt  that  the  skies  were  blue  — 
When  we  sat  in  the  sunlight,  Annie, 

I  dreamt  that  the  earth  was  green ; 
There  is  little  colour,  if  any, 

'Neath  the  sunlight  now  to  be  seen. 


Then  the  rays  of  the  sunset  glinted 

Through  the  blackwood's  emerald  bough 
On  an  emerald  sward,  rose- tinted, 

And  spangled,  and  gemm'd ;  —  and  now 
The  rays  of  the  sunset  redden 

With  a  sullen  and  lurid  frown, 
From  the  skies  that  are  dark  and  leaden, 

To  earth  that  is  dusk  and  brown. 
93 


Racing  Rhymes 
To  right  and  to  left  extended, 

The  uplands  are  blank  and  drear, 
And  their  neutral  tints  are  blended 

With  the  dead  leaves  sombre  and  sere ; 
The  cold,  gray  mist  from  the  still  side 

Of  the  lake  creeps  sluggish  and  sure, 
Bare  and  bleak  is  the  hill-side, 

Barren  and  bleak  the  moor. 

Bright  hues  and  shapes  intertwisted, 

Fair  forms  and  rich  colours ;  —  now 
They  have  flown  —  if  e'er  they  existed  — 

It  matters  not  why  or  how. 
It  matters  not  where  or  when,  dear, 

They  have  flown,  the  blue  and  the  green ; 
I  thought  on  what  might  be  then,  dear, 

Now  I  think  on  what  might  have  been. 

What  might  have  been  !  —  words  of  folly ; 

What  might  be  !  —  speech  for  a  fool ; 
With  mistletoe  round  me,  and  holly, 

Scarlet  and  green,  at  Yule. 
With  the  elm  in  the  place  of  the  wattle, 

And  in  lieu  of  the  gum,  the  oak, 
Years  back  I  believed  a  little, 

And  as  I  believed  I  spoke. 
94 


Wormwood  and  Nightshade 

Have  I  done  with  those  childish  fancies? 

They  suited  the  days  gone  by, 
When  I  pulled  the  poppies  and  pansies, 

When  I  hunted  the  butterfly, 
With  one  who  has  long  been  sleeping, 

A  stranger  to  doubts  and  cares, 
And  to  sowing  that  ends  in  reaping 

Thistles,  and  thorns,  and  tares. 

What  might  be  !  —  the  dreams  were  scatter'd, 

As  chaff  is  toss'd  by  the  wind, 
The  faith  has  been  rudely  shattered, 

That  listen' d  with  credence  blind ; 
Things  were  to  have  been,  and  therefore 

They  were,  and  they  are  to  be, 
And  will  be  ;  —  we  must  prepare  for 

The  doom  we  are  bound  to  dree. 

Ah,  me  !  we  believe  in  evil, 

Where  once  we  believed  in  good, 
The  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil 

Are  easily  understood ; 
The  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil, 

Their  traces  on  earth  are  plain  ; 
Must  they  always  riot  and  revel 

While  footprints  of  man  remain  ? 
95 


Racing  Rhymes 

Talk  about  better  and  wiser, 

Wiser  and  worse  are  one, 
The  sophist  is  the  despiser 

Of  all  things  under  the  sun  ; 
Is  nothing  real  but  confusion  ? 

Is  nothing  certain  but  death? 
Is  nothing  fair  save  illusion  ? 

Is  nothing  good  that  has  breath? 

Some  sprite,  malignant  and  elfish, 

Seems  present,  whispering  close, 
"  All  motives  of  life  are  selfish, 

All  instincts  of  life  are  gross ; 
And  the  song  that  the  poet  fashions, 

And  the  love-bird's  musical  strain, 
Are  jumbles  of  animal  passions, 

Refined  by  animal  pain." 

The  restless  throbbings  and  burnings 

That  hope  unsatisfied  brings, 
The  weary  longings  and  yearnings 

For  the  mystical  better  things, 
Are  the  sands  on  which  is  reflected 

The  pitiless  moving  lake, 
Where  the  wanderer  falls  dejected 

By  a  thirst  he  never  can  slake. 
96 


Wormwood  and  Nightshade 

A  child  blows  bubbles  that  glitter, 

He  snatches  them,  they  disperse  ; 
Yet  childhood's  folly  is  better, 

And  manhood's  folly  is  worse  ; 
Gilt  baubles  we  grasp  at  blindly 

Would  turn  in  our  hands  to  dross ; 
'T  is  a  fate  less  cruel  than  kindly 

Denies  the  gain  and  the  loss. 

And  as  one  who  pursues  a  shadow, 

As  one  who  hunts  in  a  dream, 
As  the  child  who  crosses  the  meadow 

Enticed  by  the  rainbow's  gleam, 
I  —  knowing  the  course  was  foolish, 

And  guessing  the  goal  was  pain, 
Stupid,  and  stubborn,  and  mulish  — 

Followed  and  follow  again. 

The  sun  over  Gideon  halted, 

Holding  aloof  the  night, 
When  Joshua's  arm  was  exalted, 

Yet  never  retraced  his  flight ; 
Nor  will  he  turn  back,  nor  can  he, 

He  chases  the  future  fast ; 
The  future  is  blank  —  oh,  Annie  ! 

I  fain  would  recall  the  past. 

7  97 


Racing  Rhymes 

There  are  others  toiling  and  straining 

'Neath  burdens  graver  than  mine  — 
They  are  weary,  yet  uncomplaining  — 

I  know  it,  yet  I  repine  ; 
I  know  it,  how  time  will  ravage, 

How  time  will  level,  and  yet 
I  long  with  a  longing  savage, 

I  regret  with  a  fierce  regret. 

You  are  no  false  ideal, 

Something  is  left  of  you, 
Present,  perceptible,  real, 

Palpable,  tangible,  true ; 
One  shred  of  your  broken  necklace, 

One  tress  of  your  pale,  gold  hair  — 
And  a  heart  so  utterly  reckless, 

That  the  worst  it  would  gladly  dare. 

There  is  little  pleasure,  if  any, 

In  waking  the  past  anew ; 
My  days  and  nights  have  been  many, 

Lost  chances  many  I  rue  — 
My  days  and  nights  have  been  many ; 

Now  I  pray  that  they  be  few, 
When  I  think  on  the  hill-side,  Annie, 

Where  I  dreamt  that  the  skies  were  blue. 


ARS  LONGA 

[A  SON  OF  PILGRIMAGE] 

OUR  hopes  are  wild  imaginings, 
Our  schemes  are  airy  castles, 
Yet  these,  on  earth,  are  lords  and  kings, 

And  we  their  slaves  and  vassals ; 
You  dream,  forsooth,  of  buoyant  youth, 

Most  ready  to  deceive  is, 
But  age  will  own  the  bitter  truth, 
"  Ars  longa,  vita  brevis" 


DAWN 

ON  skies  still  and  starlit 
White  lustres  take  hold, 
And  gray  flushes  scarlet, 
And  red  flashes  gold. 
And  sun-glories  cover 
The  rose,  shed  above  her, 
Like  lover  and  lover 
They  flame  and  unfold. 
99 


CONFITEOR 

"  ~WT    ~W~  AVE  my  ears  been  closed  to  the  prayer 

I 1  of  the  poor, 

A    JL      Or  deaf  to  the  cry  of  distress? 
Have  I  given  little,  and  taken  more  ? 
Have  I  brought  a  curse  to  the  widow's  door? 

Have  I  wrong'd  the  fatherless? 
Have  I  steep'd  my  fingers  in  guiltless  gore, 
That  I  must  perforce  confess?  " 

"  Have  thy  steps  been  guided  by  purity 
Through  the  paths  with  wickedness  rife? 

Hast  thou  never  smitten  thine  enemy? 

Hast  thou  yielded  naught  to  the  lust  of  the  eye, 
And  naught  to  the  pride  of  life  ? 

Hast  thou  pass'd  all  snares  of  pleasures  by? 
Hast  thou  shunn'd  all  wrath  and  strife?" 

"  Nay,  certes ;  a  sinful  life  I  Ve  led, 
Yet  I  've  suffered,  and  lived  in  hope ; 

I  may  suffer  still,  but  my  hope  has  fled  — 

I  Ve  nothing  now  to  hope  or  to  dread, 
And  with  fate  I  can  fairly  cope ; 

Were  the  waters  closing  over  my  head, 
I  should  scarcely  catch  at  a  rope." 
100 


Confiteor 

"  Dost  suffer  ?  thy  pain  may  be  fraught  with  grace, 

Since  never  by  works  alone 
We  are  saved  ;  — the  penitent  thief  may  trace 
The  wealth  of  love  in  the  Saviour's  face, 

To  the  Pharisee  rarely  shown  ; 
And  the  Magdalene's  arms  may  yet  embrace 

The  foot  of  the  jasper  throne." 


101 


QUARE   FATIGASTI 

TWO  years  ago  I  was  thinking 
On  the  changes  that  years  bring  forth ; 
Now  I  stand  where  I  then  stood  drinking 

The  gust  and  the  salt  sea  froth ; 
And  the  shuddering  wave  strikes,  linking 
With  the  wave  subsiding  and  sinking, 
And  clots  the  coast  herbage,  shrinking, 
With  a  hue  of  the  white  cere-cloth. 

Is  there  aught  worth  losing  or  keeping? 

The  bitters  or  sweets  men  quaff? 
The  sowing  or  the  doubtful  reaping? 

The  harvest  of  grain  or  chaff? 
Or  squandering  days  or  heaping, 
Or  waking  seasons  or  sleeping, 
The  laughter  that  dries  the  weeping, 

Or  the  weeping  that  drowns  the  laugh  ? 
102 


Quare  Fatigasti 

For  joys  wax  dim  and  woes  deaden, 

We  forget  the  sorrowful  biers, 
And  the  garlands  glad  that  have  fled  in 

The  merciful  march  of  years ; 
And  the  sunny  skies,  and  the  leaden, 
And  the  faces  that  pale  or  redden, 
And  the  smiles  that  lovers  are  wed  in 
Who  are  born  and  buried  in  tears. 

And  the  myrtle  bloom  turns  hoary, 
And  the  blush  of  the  rose  decays, 
And  sodden  with  sweat  and  gory 

Are  the  hard  won  laurels  and  bays ; 
We  are  neither  joyous  nor  sorry 
When  time  has  ended  our  story, 
And  blotted  out  grief  and  glory, 
And  pain,  and  pleasure,  and  praise. 

Weigh  justly,  throw  good  and  bad  in 

The  scales,  will  the  balance  veer 
With  the  joys  or  the  sorrows  had  in 

The  sum  of  a  life's  career  ? 
In  the  end,  spite  of  dreams  that  sadden 
The  sad,  or  the  sanguine  madden, 
There  is  nothing  to  grieve  or  gladden, 
There  is  nothing  to  hope  or  fear. 
103 


Racing  Rhymes 

"  Thou  hast  gone  astray,"  quoth  the  preacher, 

"  In  the  gall  of  thy  bitterness," 
Thou  hast  taught  me  in  vain,  oh,  teacher  ! 

I  neither  blame  thee  nor  bless ; 
If  bitter  is  sure  and  sweet  sure, 
These  vanish  with  form  and  feature  — 
Can  the  creature  fathom  the  creature 

Whose  Creator  is  fathomless? 

Is  this  dry  land  sure  ?     Is  the  sea  sure  ? 

Is  there  aught  that  shall  long  remain, 
Pain,  or  peril,  or  pleasure, 

Pleasure,  or  peril,  or  pain? 
Shall  we  labour  or  take  our  leisure, 
And  who  shall  inherit  treasure, 
If  the  measure  with  which  we  measure 

Is  meted  to  us  again? 

I  am  slow  in  learning,  and  swift  in 

Forgetting,  and  I  have  grown 
So  weary  with  long  sand  sifting ; 

T'wards  the  mist  where  the  breakers  moan 
The  rudderless  bark  is  drifting, 
Through  the  shoals  and  the  quicksands  shifting 
In  the  end  shall  the  night-rack  lifting, 

Discover  the  shores  unknown? 
104 


THE   SWIMMER 

A  LITTLE  season  of  love  and  laughter, 
Of  light  and  life,  and  pleasure  and  pain, 
And  a  horror  of  outer  darkness  after, 
And  dust  returneth  to  dust  again. 
Then  the  lesser  life  shall  be  as  the  greater, 
And  the  lover  of  life  shall  join  the  hater, 
And  the  one  thing  cometh  sooner  or  later, 
And  no  one  knoweth  the  loss  or  gain. 


NO    NAME 

A  stone  upon  her  heart  and  head, 
But  no  name  written  on  that  stone  ; 

Sweet  neighbours  whisper  low  instead, 
This  sinner  was  a  loving  one. 

MRS.  BROWNING. 

'f    |    ^  IS  a  nameless  stone  that  stands  at  your 

head- 

-M.          The  gusts  in  the  gloomy  gorges  whirl 
Brown  leaves  and  red  till  they  cover  your  bed  — 
Now  I  trust  that  your  sleep  is  a  sound  one,  girl ! 

I  said  in  my  wrath,  when  his  shadow  cross'd 
From  your  garden  gate  to  your  cottage  door, 

"What  does  it  matter  for  one  soul  lost? 
Millions  of  souls  have  been  lost  before." 

Yet  I  warn'd  you  —  ah  !  but  my  words  came  true  — 
"  Perhaps  some  day  you  will  find  him  out." 

He  who  was  not  worthy  to  loosen  your  shoe, 

Does  his  conscience  therefore  prick  him  ?    I  doubt. 
1 06 


No  Name 

You  laugh'd  and  were  deaf  to  my  warning  voice  — 
Blush' d  and  were  blind  to  his  cloven  hoof  — 

You  have  had  your  chance,  you  have  taken  your 

choice  — 
How  could  I  help  you,  standing  aloof? 

He  has  prosper'd  well  with  the  world  —  he  says 
I  am  mad  —  if  so,  and  if  he  be  sane, 

I,  at  least,  give  God  thanksgiving  and  praise 
That  there  lies  between  us  one  difference  plain. 

You  in  your  beauty  above  me  bent 

In  the  pause  of  a  wild  west  country  ball  — 

Spoke  to  me  —  touched  me  without  intent  — 
Made  me  your  servant  for  once  and  all. 

Light  laughter  rippled  your  rose-red  lip, 

And  you  swept  my  cheek  with  a  shining  curl, 

That  stray'd  from  your  shoulder's  snowy  tip  — 
Now  I  pray  that  your  sleep  is  a  sound  one,  girl ! 

From  a  long  way  off  to  look  at  your  charms 
Made  my  blood  run  redder  in  every  vein, 

And  he  —  he  has  held  you  long  in  his  arms, 
And  has  kiss'd  you  over  and  over  again. 
107 


Racing  Rhymes 

Is  it  well  that  he  keeps  well  out  of  my  way  ? 

If  we  met,  he  and  I  —  we  alone  —  we  two  — 
Would  I  give  him  one  moment's  grace  to  pray? 

Not  I,  for  the  sake  of  the  soul  he  slew. 

A  life  like  a  shuttlecock  may  be  toss'd 
With  the  hand  of  fate  for  a  battledore  ; 

But  it  matters  much  for  your  sweet  soul  lost, 
As  much  as  a  million  souls  and  more. 

And  I  know  that  if,  here  or  there,  alone, 
I  found  him,  fairly  and  face  to  face, 

Having  slain  his  body,  I  would  slay  my  own, 
That  my  soul  to  Satan  his  soul  might  chase. 

He  hardens  his  heart  in  the  public  way  — 
Who  am  I?     I  am  but  a  nameless  churl ; 

But  God  will  put  all  things  straight  some  day  — 
Till  then  may  your  sleep  be  a  sound  one,  girl ! 


1 08 


THICK-HEADED   THOUGHTS 

TIS  a  wicked  world  we  live  in ; 
Wrong  in  reason,  wrong  in  rhyme  ; 
But  no  matter  :  we  '11  not  give  in 
While  we  still  can  come  to  time. 

Strength  's  a  shadow  ;  Hope  is  madness  ; 

Love,  delusion  ;  Friendship,  sham  ; 
Pleasure  fades  away  to  sadness, 

None  of  these  are  worth  a  d n. 

There  is  naught  on  earth  to  please  us ; 

All  things  at  the  crisis  fail. 
Friends  desert  us,  bailiffs  tease  us  — 

(To  such  foes  we  give  leg-bail). 

But  a  stout  heart  still  maintaining, 

Quells  the  ills  we  all  must  meet, 
And  a  spirit  fear  disdaining 

Lays  our  troubles  at  our  feet. 

So  we  '11  ne'er  surrender  tamely 

To  the  ills  that  throng  us  fast. 
If  we  must  die,  let 's  die  gamely ; 

Luck  may  take  a  turn  at  last. 
109 


THE  THREE   FRIENDS 
(FROM  THE  FRENCH) 

THE  sword  slew  one  in  deadly  strife  ; 
One  perished  by  the  bowl ; 
The  third  lies  self-slain  by  the  knife ; 

For  three  the  bells  may  toll  — 
I  loved  her  better  than  my  life, 
And  better  than  my  soul. 

Aye,  father  !  hast  thou  come  at  last  ? 

'T  is  somewhat  late  to  pray  ; 
Life 's  crimson  tides  are  ebbing  fast, 

They  drain  my  soul  away ; 
Mine  eyes  with  film  are  overcast, 

The  lights  are  waning  grey. 

This  curl  from  her  bright  head  I  shore, 

And  this  her  hands  gave  mine  ; 
See,  one  is  stained  with  purple  gore, 

And  one  with  poison'd  wine  ; 
Give  these  to  her  when  all  is  o'er  — 

How  serpent-like  they  twine  ! 


The  Three  Friends 

We  three  were  brethren  in  arms, 

And  sworn  companions  we  ; 
We  held  this  motto,  "  Whoso  harms 

The  one  shall  harm  the  three  !  " 
Till,  matchless  for  her  subtle  charms, 

Beloved  of  each  was  she. 

(These  two  were  slain  that  I  might  kiss 
Her  sweet  mouth.     I  did  well ; 

I  said,  "  There  is  no  greater  bliss 
For  those  in  heaven  that  dwell ; " 

I  lost  her ;  then  I  said,  "  There  is 
No  fiercer  pang  in  hell !  ") 

We  have  upheld  each  other's  rights, 
Shared  purse,  and  borrow'd  blade ; 

Have  stricken  side  by  side  in  fights ; 
And  side  by  side  have  prayed 

In  churches.     We  were  Christian  knights, 
And  she  a  Christian  maid. 

We  met  at  sunrise,  he  and  I, 

My  comrade  —  't  was  agreed 
The  steel  our  quarrel  first  should  try, 

The  poison  should  succeed ; 
For  two  of  three  were  doom'd  to  die, 

And  one  was  doomed  to  bleed. 
in 


Racing  Rhymes 

We  buckled  to  the  doubtful  fray, 

At  first,  with  some  remorse  ; 
But  he  who  must  be  slain,  or  slay, 

Soon  strikes  with  vengeful  force. 
He  fell ;  I  left  him  where  he  lay, 

Among  the  trampled  gorse. 

Did  passion  warp  my  heart  and  head 

To  madness  ?  And,  if  so, 
Can  madness  palliate  bloodshed  ?  — 

It  may  be  —  I  shall  know 
When  God  shall  gather  up  the  dead 

From  where  the  four  winds  blow. 

We  met  at  sunset,  he  and  I  — 

My  second  comrade  true ; 
Two  cups  with  wine  were  brimming  high, 

And  one  was  drugg'd  —  we  knew 
Not  which,  nor  sought  we  to  descry ; 

Our  choice  by  lot  we  drew. 

And  there  I  sat  with  him  to  sup  : 

I  heard  him  blithely  speak 
Of  by-gone  days  —  the  fatal  cup 

Forgotten  seemed  —  his  cheek 
Was  ruddy :  father,  raise  me  up, 

My  voice  is  waxing  weak. 

112 


The  Three  Friends 

We  drank ;  his  lips  turned  livid  white, 
His  cheeks  grew  leaden  ash ; 

He  reel'd  —  I  heard  his  temples  smite 
The  threshold  with  a  crash  ! 

And  from  his  hand,  in  shivers  bright, 
I  saw  the  goblet  flash. 

The  morrow  dawned  with  fragrance  rare. 

The  May- breeze,  from  the  west, 
Just  fann'd  the  sleepy  olives,  where 

She  heard  and  I  confess'd  ; 
My  hair  entangled  with  her  hair, 

Her  breast  strained  to  my  breast. 

On  the  dread  verge  of  endless  gloom 

My  soul  recalls  that  hour ; 
Skies  languishing  with  balm  of  bloom, 

And  fields  aflame  with  flower ; 
And  slow  caresses  that  consume, 

And  kisses  that  devour. 

Ah  !  now  with  storm  the  day  seems  rife, 

My  dull  ears  catch  the  roll 
Of  thunder,  and  the  far  sea  strife, 

On  beach  and  bar  and  shoal  — 
I  loved  her  better  than  my  life, 

And  better  than  my  soul. 

8  113 


Racing  Rhymes 

She  fled  !  I  cannot  prove  her  guilt, 

Nor  would  I  an  I  could ; 
See,  life  for  life  is  fairly  spilt ! 

And  blood  is  shed  for  blood  ; 
Her  white  hands  neither  touched  the  hilt, 

Nor  yet  the  potion  brew'd. 

Aye  !  turn  me  from  the  sickly  south, 

Towards  the  gusty  north ; 
The  fruits  of  sin  are  dust  and  drouth, 

The  end  of  crime  is  wrath  — 
The  lips  that  pressed  her  rose-like  mouth 

Are  choked  with  blood-red  froth. 

Then  dig  the  grave-pit  deep  and  wide, 
Three  graves  thrown  into  one, 

And  lay  three  corpses  side  by  side, 
And  tell  their  tale  to  none  ; 

But  bring  her  back  in  all  her  pride 
To  see  what  she  hath  done. 


114 


FROM   THE   WRECK 

TURN  out,  boys."  —  "  What 's  up  with  our 
super  to-night? 
The  man's  mad. — Two  hours  to  day- 
break I  'd  swear  — 

Stark  mad  —  why,  there  is  n't  a  glimmer  of  light." 
"  Take   Bolinbroke,  Alec,  give   Jack   the   young 

mare ; 

Look  sharp.    A  large  vessel  lies  jamm'd  on  the  reef, 
And   many  on  board  still,  and  some  wash'd  on 

shore. 
Ride  straight  with  the  news  —  they  may  send  some 

relief 
From  the  township  ;  and  we  —  we  can  do  little 

more. 

You,  Alec,  you  know  the  near  cuts  ;  you  can  cross 
The  '  SugarloaP  ford  with  a  scramble,  I  think; 
Don't  spare  the  blood  filly,  nor  yet  the  black  horse ; 
Should  the  wind  rise,  God  help  them  !  the  ship 
will  soon  sink. 

"5 


Racing  Rhymes 

Old  Peter 's  away  down  the  paddock,  to  drive 
The  nags  to  the  stockyard  as  fast  as  he  can  — 

A  life  and  death  matter;  so,  lads,  look  alive." 
Half-dress'd  in  the  dark  to  the  stockyard  we  ran. 

There  was  bridling  with  hurry,  and  saddling  with  haste, 

Confusion  and  cursing  for  lack  of  a  moon ; 
"  Be  quick  with  these  buckles,  we  've  no  time  to 

waste ;  " 
"Mind  the  mare,  she  can  use  her  hind  legs  to 

some  tune." 
"  Make  sure  of  the  crossing-place ;    strike  the  old 

track, 
They  Ve  fenced  off  the  new  one ;  look  out  for  the 

holes 
On  the  wombat  hills."     "  Down  with  the  slip  rails ; 

stand  back." 

"  And  ride,  boys,  the  pair  of  you,  ride  for  your 
souls." 

In  the  low  branches  heavily  laden  with  dew, 

In  the  long  grasses  spoiling  with  deadwood  that 

day, 
Where  the  blackwood,  the  box,  and  the  bastard  oak 

grew, 

Between  the  tall  gum-trees  we  gallop'd  away  — 
116 


From  the  Wreck 

We   crash'd    through   a   brush    fence,  we    splash'd 

through  a  swamp  — 
We  steer'd  for  the  north  near  "  The  Eaglehawk's 

Nest  "  — 

We  bore  to  the  left  just  beyond  "The  Red  Camp," 
And  round  the  black  tea-tree  belt  wheel'd  to  the 

west  — 
We  cross'd  a  low  range  sickly  scented  with  musk 

From  wattle-tree  blossom  —  we  skirted  a  marsh  — 
Then  the  dawn  faintly  dappled  with  orange  the  dusk, 
And  peal'd  overhead  the  jay's  laughter  note  harsh, 
And  shot  the  first  sunstreak  behind  us,  and  soon 

The  dim  dewy  uplands  were  dreamy  with  light ; 
And  full  on  our  left  flash'd  "  The  Reedy  Lagoon," 

And  sharply  "The  Sugarloaf"  rear'd  on  our  right 
A   smother'd   curse  broke  through  the  bushman's 

brown  beard, 

He  turn'd  in  his  saddle,  his  brick-colour'd  cheek 
Flush' d  feebly  with  sundawn,   said,   "Just  what  I 

fear'd ; 
Last  fortnight's  rainfall  has  flooded  the  creek." 

Black  Bolinbroke  snorted,  and  stood  on  the  brink 
One  instant,  then  deep  in  the  dark,  sluggish  swirl 

Plunged  headlong.     I  saw  the  horse  suddenly  sink, 
Till  round  the  man's  armpits  the  waves  seem'd  to 
curl.  117 


Racing  Rhymes 

We  followed,  —  one  cold  shock,  and  deeper  we  sank 

Than  they  did,  and  twice  tried  the  lading  in  vain ; 

The  third  struggle  won  it ;  straight  up  the  steep  bank 

We  stagger' d,  then  out  on  the  skirts  of  the  plain. 
The  stockrider,  Alec,  at  starting  had  got 

The  lead,  and  had  kept  it  throughout ;   't  was  his 

boast 
That  through  thickest  of  shrub  he  could  steer  like  a 

shot, 
And  the  black  horse  was  counted  the  best  on  the 

coast. 

The  mare  had  been  awkward  enough  in  the  dark, 
She  was  eager  and  headstrong,  and   barely  half 

broke ; 

She  had  had  me  too  close  to  a  big  stringy-bark, 
And  had  made  a  near  thing  of  a  crooked  sheoak. 

But  now  on  the  open,  lit  up  by  the  morn, 

She  flung  the  white  foam-flakes  from  nostril  to  neck, 
And  chased  him  —  I  hatless,  with  shirt-sleeves  all  torn 

(For  he  may  ride  ragged  who  rides  from  a  wreck)  — 
And  faster  and  faster  across  the  wide  heath 

We  rode  till  we  raced.    Then  I  gave  her  her  head. 
And  she  —  stretching  out  with  the  bit  in  her  teeth 

She  caught  him,  outpaced  him,  and  passed  him, 
and  led. 

118 


From  the  Wreck 

We  neared  the  new  fence;  we  were  wide  of  the 

track ; 

I  look'd  right  and  left  —  she  had  never  been  tried 

At  a  stiff  leap.     T  was  little  he  cared  on  the  black. 

"You 're  more  than  a  mile  from  the  gateway,"  he 

cried. 

I  hung  to  her  head,  touched  her  flank  with  the  spurs 

(In  the  red  streak  of  rail  not  the  ghost  of  a  gap)  ; 

She    shortened    her   long   stroke,  she   pricked   her 

sharp  ears, 

She  flung  it  behind  her  with  hardly  a  rap  — 
I  saw  the  post  quiver  where  Bolingbroke  struck, 
And  guessed  that  the  pace  we  had  come  the  last 

mile 

Had  blown  him  a  bit  (he  could  jump  like  a  buck). 
We  galloped  more  steadily  then  for  a  while. 

The  heath  was  soon  pass'd,  in  the  dim  distance  lay 

The  mountain.    The  sun  was  just  clearing  the  tips 
Of  the  ranges  to  eastward.     The  mare  —  could  she 
stay? 

She  was  bred  very  nearly  as  clean  as  Eclipse ; 
She  led,  and  as  oft  as  he  came  to  her  side, 

She  took  the  bit  free  and  untiring  as  yet ; 
Her  neck  was  arched  double,  her  nostrils  were  wide, 

And  the  tips  of  her  tapering  ears  nearly  met  — 
119 


Racing  Rhymes 

"  You  're  lighter  than  I  am,"  said  Alec  at  last ; 

"The  horse  is  dead  beat  and  the  mare  is  n't 

blown. 
She  must  be  a  good  one  —  ride  on  and  ride  fast, 

You  know  your  way  now."     So  I  rode  on  alone. 

Still  galloping  forward  we  pass'd  the  two  flocks 

At  M'Intyre's  hut  and  M'Allister's  hill  — 
She  was  galloping  strong  at  the  Warrigal  Rocks  — 
On  the  Wallaby  Range  she  was  galloping  still  — 
And  over  the  wasteland  and  under  the  wood, 

By  down  and  by  dale,  and  by  fell  and  by  flat, 
She  gallop'd,  and  here  in  the  stirrups  I  stood 
To  ease  her,  and  there  in  the  sadddle  I  sat 
To  steer  her.     We  suddenly  struck  the  red  loam 
Of  the  track  near  the  troughs  —  then  she  reeled 

on  the  rise  — 
From    her   crest   to  her  croup  covered  over  with 

foam, 

And  blood-red  her  nostrils  and  bloodshot  her  eyes, 
A  dip  in  the  dell  where  the  wattle  fire  bloomed  — 

A  bend  round  a  bank  that  had  shut  out  the  view  — 
Large  framed  in  the  mild  light  the  mountain  had 

loomed, 

With  a  tall,  purple  peak  bursting  out  from  the 
blue. 

120 


From  the  Wreck 

I  pull'd  her  together,  I  press'd  her,  and  she 

Shot  down  the  decline  to  the  Company's  yard, 
And  on  by  the  paddocks,  yet  under  my  knee 

I  could  feel  her  heart  thumping  the  saddle- flaps 

hard. 
Yet  a  mile  and  another,  and  now  we  were  near 

The  goal,  and  the  fields  and  the  farms  flitted  past ; 
And  'twixt  the  two  fences  I  turned  with  a  cheer ; 
For  a  green,  grass-fed  mare  't  was  a  far  thing  and 

fast; 
And  labourers,  roused  by  her  galloping  hoofs, 

Saw  bare-headed  rider  and  foam-sheeted  steed ; 
And  shone  the  white  walls  and  the  slate-coloured  roofs 
Of  the  township.     I  steadied  her  then  —  I  had 

need  — 
Where  stood  the  old  chapel  (where  stands  the  new 

church  — 
Since  chapels  to  churches  have  changed  in  that 

town). 
A  short,  sidelong  stagger,  a  long,  forward  lurch, 

A  slight  choking  sob,  and  the  mare  had  gone  down. 
I  slipp'd  off  the  bridle,  I  slackened  the  girth, 

I  ran  on  and  left  her  and  told  them  my  news ; 
I  saw  her  soon  afterwards.     What  was  she  worth  ? 
How  much  for  her  hide?     She  had  never  worn 
shoes. 

121 


THE    ROMANCE   OF   BRITOMARTE 

AS  RELATED  BY  SERGEANT  LEIGH  ON  THE  NIGHT  HE 
GOT  HIS  CAPTAINCY  AT  THE  RESTORATION 

I'LL  tell  you  a  story :  but  pass  the  "jack," 
And  let  us  make  merry  to-night,  my  men. 
Aye,  those  were  the  days  when  my  beard  was 

black  — 

I  like  to  remember  them  now  and  then ; 
Then  Miles  was  living,  and  Cuthbert  there  — 

On  his  lip  was  never  a  sign  of  down ; 
But  I  carry  about  some  braided  hair, 

That  has  not  yet  changed  from  the  glossy  brown 
That  it  show'd  the  day  when  I  broke  the  heart 
Of  the  bravest  of  destriers,  "  Britomarte." 

Sir  Hugh  was  slain  (may  his  soul  find  grace  !) 

In  the  fray  that  was  neither  lost  nor  won 
At  Edgehill  —  then  to  St.  Hubert's  Chase 

Lord  Goring  despatched  a  garrison  — 
But  men  and  horses  were  ill  to  spare, 

And  ere  long  the  soldiers  were  shifted  fast. 
As  for  me,  I  never  was  quartered  there 

Till  Marston  Moor  had  been  lost ;  at  last, 

122 


The  Romance  of  Britomarte 

As  luck  would  have  it,  alone,  and  late 
In  the  night,  I  rode  to  the  northern  gate. 

I  thought,  as  I  pass'd  through  the  moonlit  park, 

On  the  boyish  days  I  used  to  spend 
In  the  halls  of  the  knight  lying  stiff  and  stark  — 

Thought  on  his  lady,  my  father's  friend 
(Mine,  too,  in  spite  of  my  sinister  bar, 

But  with  that  my  story  has  naught  to  do)  ; 
She  died  the  winter  before  the  war  — 

Died  giving  birth  to  the  baby  Hugh. 
He  pass'd  ere  the  green  leaves  clothed  the  bough, 
And  the  orphan  girl  was  the  heiress  now. 

When  I  was  a  rude  and  reckless  boy, 

And  she  a  brave  and  beautiful  child, 
I  was  her  page,  her  playmate,  her  toy ; 

I  have   crown'd  her   hair  with  the   field-flowers 

wild, 

Cowslip  and  crow-foot,  and  colt's-foot  bright ; 
I  have  carried  her  miles  when  the  woods  were 

wet, 
I  have  read  her  romances  of  dame  and  knight ; 

She  was  my  princess,  my  pride,  my  pet. 
There  was  then  this  proverb  us  twain  between, 
For  the  glory  of  God  and  Gwendoline. 
123 


Racing  Rhymes 

She  had  grown  to  a  maiden  wonderful  fair, 

But  for  years  I  had  scarcely  seen  her  face. 
Now,  with  troopers  Holdsworth,  Huntly,  and  Clare, 

Old  Miles  kept  guard  at  St.  Hubert's  Chase, 
And  the  chatelaine  was  a  Mistress  Ruth, 

Sir  Hugh's  half-sister,  an  ancient  dame ; 
But  a  mettlesome  soul  had  she  forsooth, 

As  she  show'd  when  the  time  of  her  trial  came. 
I  bore  despatches  to  Miles  and  to  her, 
To  warn  them  against  the  bands  of  Kerr. 

And  mine  would  have  been  a  perilous  ride 

With  the  rebel  horsemen  —  we  knew  not  where 
They  were  scattered  over  that  country  side,  — 

If  it  had  not  been  for  my  brave  brown  mare. 
She  was  iron-sinew'd  and  satin-skinn'd, 

Ribb'd  like  a  drum  and  limb'd  like  a  deer, 
Fierce  as  the  fire  and  fleet  as  the  wind ; 

There  was  nothing  she  could  n't  climb  or  clear. 
Rich  lords  had  vex'd  me,  in  vain,  to  part, 
For  their  gold  and  silver,  with  Britomarte. 

Next  morn  we  muster'd  scarce  half  a  score 

With  the  serving  men,  who  were  poorly  arm'd ; 

Five  soldiers,  counting  myself,  no  more ; 

And  a  culverin,  which  might  well  have  harm'd 
124 


The  Romance  of  Britomarte 

Us,  had  we  used  it,  but  not  our  foes  — 

When,  with  horses  and  foot,  to  our  doors  they  came, 

And  a  psalm-singer  summon'd  us  (through  his  nose). 
And  deliver'd  — "This,  in  the  people's  name, 

Unto  whoso  holdeth  this  fortress  here, 

Surrender  !  or  bide  the  siege  — John  Kerr." 

T  was  a  mansion  built  in  a  style  too  new, 

A  castle  by  courtesy  —  he  lied 
Who  called  it  a  fortress,  yet  't  is  true, 

It  had  been  indifferently  fortified  ; 
We  were  well  provided  with  bolt  and  bar ; 

And  while  I  hurried  to  place  our  men, 
Old  Miles  was  called  to  a  council  of  war 

With  Mistress  Ruth  and  with  her,  and  when 
They  had  argued  loudly  and  long,  those  three, 
They  sent,  as  a  last  resource,  for  me. 

In  the  chair  of  state  sat  erect  Dame  Ruth ; 

She  had  cast  aside  her  embroidery  : 
She  had  been  a  beauty,  they  say,  in  her  youth, 

There  was  much  fierce  fire  in  her  bold  black  eye. 
"Am  I  deceived  in  you  both?"  quoth  she. 

"  If  one  spark  of  her  father's  spirit  lives 
In  this  girl  here  so,  this  Leigh,  Ralph  Leigh, 

Let  us  hear  what  counsel  the  springald  gives." 
I2S 


Racing  Rhymes 

Then  I  stammer' d,  somewhat  taken  aback  — 
(Simon,  you  ale-swiller,  pass  the  "jack"). 

The  dame  wax'd  hotter  —  "  Speak  out,  lad,  say, 

Must  we  fall  in  that  canting  caitiffs  power  ? 
Shall  we  yield  to  a  knave  and  a  turncoat  ?     Nay, 

I  had  liever  leap  from  our  topmost  tower. 
For  a  while  we  can  surely  await  relief: 

Our  walls  are  high  and  our  doors  are  strong." 
This  Kerr  was  indeed  a  canting  thief  — 

I  know  not  rightly,  some  private  wrong 
He  had  done  Sir  Hugh,  but  I  know  this  much, 
Traitor  or  turncoat  he  suffered  as  such. 

Quoth  Miles,  "  Enough  !  your  will  shall  be  done ; 

Relief  may  arrive  by  the  merest  chance, 
But  your  house  ere  dusk  will  be  lost  and  won ; 

They  have  got  three  pieces  of  ordnance." 
Then    I   cried,    "  Lord    Guy,  with   four   troops  of 

horse, 

Even  now  is  biding  at  Westbrooke  town ; 
If  a  rider  could  break  through  the  rebel  force, 

He  would  bring  relief  ere  the  sun  goes  down ; 
Through    the    postern   door   could    I    make    one 

dart, 

I  could  baffle  them  all  upon  Britomarte." 
126 


The  Romance  of  Britomarte 

Miles    mutter'd,  "  Madness  ! "    Dame  Ruth  look'd 
grave, 

Said,  "  True,  though  we  cannot  keep  one  hour 
The  courtyard,  no,  nor  the  stables  save, 

They  will  have  to  batter  piecemeal  the  tower, 
And  thus  —  "     But  suddenly  she  halted  there. 

With  a  shining  hand  on  my  shoulder  laid, 
Stood  Gwendoline.     She  had  left  her  chair, 

And,  "  Nay,  if  it  needs  must  be  done,"  she  said, 
"  Ralph  Leigh  will  gladly  do  it,  I  ween, 
For  the  glory  of  God  and  of  Gwendoline." 

I  had  undertaken  a  heavier  task 

For  a  lighter  word.     I  saddled  with  care, 
Nor  cumber'd  myself  with  corselet  nor  casque 

(Being  loth  to  burden  the  brave  brown  mare). 
Young  Clare  kept  watch  on  the  wall  —  he  cried, 

"  Now,  haste,  Ralph  !  this  is  the  time  to  seize ; 
The  rebels  are  round  us  on  every  side, 

But  here  they  straggle  by  twos  and  threes." 
Then  out  I  led  her,  and  up  I  sprung, 
And  the  postern  door  on  its  hinges  swung. 

I  had  drawn  this  sword  —  you  may  draw  it  and  feel, 
For  this  is  the  blade  that  I  bore  that  day  — 

There  's  a  notch  even  now  on  the  long  grey  steel, 
A  nick  that  has  never  been  rasped  away. 
127 


Racing  Rhymes 

I  bow'd  my  head  and  I  buried  my  spurs, 

One  bound  brought  the  gliding  green  beneath ; 

I  could  tell  by  her  back-flung,  flatten'd  ears, 
She  had  fairly  taken  the  bit  in  her  teeth  — 

(What,  Jack,  have  you  drain'd  your  namesake  dry, 

Left  nothing  to  quench  the  thirst  of  a  fly  ?) . 

These  things  are  done,  and  are  done  with,  lad, 

In  far  less  time  than  your  talker  tells. 
The  sward  with  their  hoof-strokes  shook  like  mad, 

And  rang  with  their  carbines  and  petronels ; 
And  they  shouted,  "  Cross  him  and  cut  him  off," 

"Surround   him,"    "Seize    him,"    "Capture   the 

clown, 
Or  kill  him,"  "  Shall  he  escape  to  scoff 

In  your  faces?  "     "Shoot  him  or  cut  him  down." 
And  their  bullets  whistled  on  every  side : 
Many  were  near  us  and  more  were  wide. 

Not  a  bullet  told  upon  Britomarte ; 

Suddenly  snorting,  she  launched  along ; 
So  the  osprey  dives  where  the  seagulls  dart, 

So  the  falcon  swoops  where  the  kestrels  throng ; 
And  full  in  my  front  one  pistol  flash'd, 

And  right  in  my  path  their  sergeant  got. 
How  our  jack-boots  jarr'd,  how  our  stirrups  clash'd, 

While  the  mare  like  a  meteor  past  him  shot ; 
128 


The  Romance  of  Britomarte 

But  I  clove  his  skull  with  a  hackstroke  clean, 
For  the  glory  of  God  and  of  Gwendoline. 


And,   as  one  whom  the  fierce  wind  storms  in  the 
face 

With  spikes  of  hail  and  with  splinters  of  rain, 
I,  while  we  fled  through  St.  Hubert's  Chase, 

Bent  till  my  cheek  was  amongst  her  mane. 
To  the  north  full  a  league  of  the  deer-park  lay, 

Smooth,  springy  turf,  and  she  fairly  flew, 
And  the  sound  of  their  hoof-strokes  died  away, 

And  their  far  shots  faint  in  the  distance  grew. 
Loudly  I  laughed,  having  won  the  start, 
At  the  folly  of  following  Britomarte. 

They  had  posted  a  guard  at  the  northern  gate  — 

Some  dozen  of  pikemen  and  musketeers. 
To  the  tall  park  palings  I  turn'd  her  straight ; 

She  veer'd  in  her  flight  as  the  swallow  veers. 
And  some  blew  matches,  and  some  drew  swords. 

And  one  of  them  wildly  hurl'd  his  pike, 
But  she  clear'd  by  inches  the  oaken  boards, 

And  she  carried  me  yards  beyond  the  dyke ; 
Then  gaily  over  the  long  green  down 
We  gallop'd,  heading  for  Westbrooke  town. 
129 


Racing  Rhymes 

The  green  down  slopes  to  the  great  grey  moor, 

The  grey  moor  sinks  to  the  gleaming  Skelt  — 
Sudden  and  sullen,  and  swift  and  sure, 

The  whirling  water  was  round  my  belt. 
She  breasted  the  bank  with  a  savage  snort, 

And  a  backward  glance  of  her  bloodshot  eye, 
And  Our  Lady  of  Andover's  flashed  like  thought, 

And  flitted  St.  Agatha's  nunnery, 
And  the  firs  at  The  Ferngrove  fled  on  the  right, 
And  the  Falconer's  Tower  on  the  left  took  flight. 

And  over  the  Ravenswold  we  raced  — 

We  rounded  the  hill  by  The  Hermit's  Well  — 
We  burst  on  the  Westbrooke  Bridge  —  "  What  haste  ? 

What  errand?  "  shouted  the  sentinel. 
"  To  Beelzebub  with  the  Brewer's  knave  ! " 

"  Carolus  Rex  and  he  of  the  Rhine  !  " 
Galloping  past  him,  I  got  and  gave 

In  the  gallop  password  and  countersign, 
All  soak'd  with  water  and  soil'd  with  mud, 
With  the  sleeve  of  my  jerkin  half  drench'd  in  blood. 

Now,  Heaven  be  praised  that  I  found  him  there  — 
Lord  Guy.     He  said,  having  heard  my  tale, 

"  Leigh,  let  my  own  man  look  to  your  mare, 
Rest  and  recruit  with  our  wine  and  ale ; 
130 


The  Romance  of  Britomarte 

But  first  must  our  surgeon  attend  to  you  ; 

You  are  somewhat  shrewdly  stricken,  no  doubt.'? 
Then  he  snatched  a  horn  from  the  wall  and  blew. 

Making  "Boot  and  Saddle  "  ring  sharply  out. 
"  Have  I  done  good  service  this  day?  "  quoth  I. 
"  Then  I  will  ride  back  in  your  troop,  Lord  Guy." 

In  the  street  I  heard  how  the  trumpets  peal'd, 

And  I  caught  the  gleam  of  a  morion 
From  the  window  —  then  to  the  door  I  reel'd ; 

I  had  lost  more  blood  than  I  reckon'd  upon ; 
He  eyed  me  calmly  with  keen  grey  eyes  — 

Stern  grey  eyes  of  a  steel-blue  grey  — 
Said,  "  The  wilful  man  can  never  be  wise, 

Nathless  the  wilful  man  must  have  his  way." 
And  he  pour'd  from  a  flagon  some  fiery  wine, 
I  drain'd  it  and  straightway  strength  was  mine. 

I  was  with  them  all  the  way  on  the  brown  — 

"  Guy  to  the  rescue  !  "    "  God  and  the  king  !  " 
We  were  just  in  time,  for  the  doors  were  down  ; 

And  didn't  our  sword-blades  rasp  and  ring? 
And  did  n't  we  hew,  and  did  n't  we  hack  ? 

The  sport  scarce  lasted  minutes  ten  — 
(Aye,  those  were  the  days  when  my  beard  was  black ; 

I  like  to  remember  them  now  and  then)  — 


Racing  Rhymes 

Though  they  fought  like  fiends,  we  were  four  to 

one, 
And  we  captured  those  that  refused  to  run. 

We  have  not  forgotten  it,  Cuthbert,  boy  ! 

That  supper  scene  when  the  lamps  were  'lit ; 
How  the  women  (some  of  them)  sobbed  for  joy, 

How  the  soldiers  drank  the  deeper  for  it ; 
How  the  dame  did  honours,  and  Gwendoline, 

How  grandly  she  glided  into  the  hall, 
How  she  stoop'd  with  the  grace  of  a  girlish  queen, 

And  kiss'd  me  gravely  before  them  all ; 
And  the  stern  Lord  Guy,  how  gaily  he  laugh'd, 
Till  more  of  his  cup  was  spilt  than  quaffd. 

Brown  Britomarte  lay  dead  in  her  straw 

Next    morning  —  we   buried    her  —  brave    old 

girl! 
John  Kerr,  we  tried  him  by  martial  law, 

And  we  twisted   some  hemp    for   the   trait'rous 

churl ; 
And  she  —  I  met  her  alone  —  said  she, 

"  You  have  risked  your  life,  you  have  lost  your  mare, 
And  what  can  I  give  in  return,  Ralph  Leigh?  " 
I    replied,    "One    braid   of   that   bright   brown 
hair." 

132 


The  Romance  of  Britomarte 

And  with  that  she  bow'd  her  beautiful  head, 

"  You  can  take  as  much  as  you  choose,"  she  said. 

And  I  took  it  —  it  may  be,  more  than  enough  — 

And  I  shore  it  rudely,  close  to  the  roots. 
The  wine  or  wounds  may  have  made  me  rough, 

And  men  at  the  bottom  are  merely  brutes. 
Three  weeks  I  slept  at  St.  Hubert's  Chase ; 

When   I   woke   from   the  fever   of  wounds   and 

wine 
I  could  scarcely  believe  that  the  ghastly  face 

That  the  glass  reflected  was  really  mine. 
I  sought  the  hall  —  where  a  wedding  had  been  — 
The  wedding  of  Guy  and  of  Gwendoline. 

The  romance  of  a  grizzled  old  trooper's  life 

May  make  you  laugh  in  your  sleeves :  laugh  out, 
Lads ;  we  have  most  of  us  seen  some  strife  ; 

We  have  all  of  us  had  some  sport,  no  doubt. 
I  have  won  some  honour  and  gain'd  some  gold, 

Now  that  our  king  returns  to  his  own ; 
If  the  pulses  beat  slow,  if  the  blood  runs  cold, 

And  if  friends  have  faded  and  loves  have  flown, 
Then  the  greater  reason  is  ours  to  drink, 
And  the  more  we  swallow  the  less  we  shall  think. 
133 


Racing  Rhymes 

At  the  battle  of  Naseby,  Miles  was  slain, 

And  Huntly  sank  from  his  wounds  that  week ; 
We  left  young  Clare  upon  Worcester  plain  — 

How  the  "  Ironside  "  gash'd  his  girlish  cheek. 
Aye,  strut,  and  swagger,  and  ruffle  anew, 

Gay  gallants,  now  that  the  war  is  done  ! 
They  fought  like  fiends  (give  the  fiend  his  due)  - 

We  fought  like  fops,  it  was  thus  they  won. 
Holdsworth  is  living  for  aught  I  know, 
At  least  he  was  living  two  years  ago. 

And  Guy  —  Lord  Guy  —  so  stately  and  stern, 

He  is  changed,  I  met  him  at  Winchester ; 
He  has  grown  quite  gloomy  and  taciturn. 

Gwendoline  !  —  why  do  you  ask  for  her  ? 
Died,  as  her  mother  had  died  before  — 

Died  giving  birth  to  the  baby  Guy  ! 
Did  my  voice  shake?     Then  am  I  fool  the  more. 

Sooner  or  later  we  all  must  die  : 
But  at  least,  let  us  live  while  we  live  to-night, 
The  days  may  be  dark,  but  the  lamps  are  bright. 

For  to  me  the  sunlight  seems  worn  and  wan  : 
The  sun,  he  is  losing  his  splendour  now  — 

He  can  never  shine  as  of  old  he  shone 
On  her  glorious  hair  and  glittering  brow. 
'34 


The  Romance  of  Britomarte 

Ah  !  those  days  that  were,  when  my  beard  was  black, 
Now  I  have  only  the  nights  that  are. 

What,  landlord,  ho  !  bring  in  your  haste  burnt  sack, 
And  a  flask  of  your  fiercest  usquebaugh. 

You,  Cuthbert !  surely  you  know  by  heart 

The  story  of  her  and  of  Britomarte. 


135 


TO   MY   SISTER 

LINES  WRITTEN  BY  THE  LATE  A.  L.  GORDON 

ON  FOURTH  AUGUST,  1853, 
BEING  THREE  DAYS  BEFORE  HE  SAILED  FOR  AUSTRALIA 

ACROSS  the  trackless  seas  I  go, 
No  matter  when  or  where, 
And  few  my  future  lot  will  know, 

And  fewer  still  will  care. 
My  hopes  are  gone,  my  time  is  spent, 

I  little  heed  their  loss, 
And  if  I  cannot  feel  content, 
I  cannot  feel  remorse. 

My  parents  bid  me  cross  the  flood, 

My  kindred  frowned  at  me  ; 
They  say  I  have  belied  my  blood, 

And  stained  my  pedigree. 
But  I  must  turn  from  those  who  chide, 

And  laugh  at  those  who  frown ; 
I  cannot  quench  my  stubborn  pride, 

Nor  keep  my  spirits  down. 
136 


To  My  Sister 

I  once  had  talents  fit  to  win 

Success  in  life's  career, 
And  if  I  chose  a  part  of  sin, 

My  choice  has  cost  me  dear. 
But  those  who  brand  me  with  disgrace 

Will  scarcely  dare  to  say 
They  spoke  the  taunt  before  my  face, 

And  went  unscathed  away. 

My  friends  will  miss  a  comrade's  face, 

And  pledge  me  on  the  seas, 
Who  shared  the  wine-cup  or  the  chase, 

Or  follies  worse  than  these. 
A  careless  smile,  a  parting  glass, 

A  hand  that  waves  adieu, 
And  from  my  sight  they  soon  will  pass, 

And  from  my  memory  too. 

I  loved  a  girl  not  long  ago, 

And,  till  my  suit  was  told, 
I  thought  her  breast  as  fair  as  snow, 

'T  was  very  near  as  cold ; 
And  yet  I  spoke,  with  feelings  more 

Of  recklessness  than  pain, 
Those  words  I  never  spoke  before, 

Nor  never  shall  again. 


Racing  Rhymes 

Her  cheek  grew  pale,  in  her  dark  eye 

I  saw  the  tear-drop  shine ; 
Her  red  lips  faltered  in  reply, 

And  then  were  pressed  to  mine. 
A  quick  pulsation  of  the  heart ! 

A  flutter  of  the  breath  ! 
A  smothered  sob  !  —  and  thus  we  part, 

To  meet  no  more  till  death. 

And  yet  I  may  at  times  recall 

Her  memory  with  a  sigh ; 
At  times  for  me  the  tears  may  fall 

And  dim  her  sparkling  eye. 
But  absent  friends  are  soon  forgot, 

And  in  a  year  or  less 
'T  will  doutbless  be  another's  lot 

Those  very  lips  to  press  ! 

With  adverse  fate  we  best  can  cope 

When  all  we  prize  has  fled  ; 
And  where  there  's  little  left  to  hope, 

There 's  little  left  to  dread  ! 
Oh,  time  glides  ever  quickly  by  ! 

Destroying  all  that 's  dear ; 
On  earth  there 's  little  worth  a  sigh, 

And  nothing  worth  a  tear  ! 
138 


To  My  Sister 

What  fears  have  I  ?     What  hope  in  life  ? 

What  joys  can  I  command  ? 
A  few  short  years  of  toil  and  strife 

In  a  strange  and  distant  land  ! 
When  green  grass  sprouts  above  this  clay 

(And  that  might  be  ere  long), 
Some  friends  may  read  these  lines  and  say, 

The  world  has  judged  him  wrong. 

There  is  a  spot  not  far  away 

Where  my  young  sister  sleeps, 
Who  seems  alive  but  yesterday, 

So  fresh  her  memory  keeps ; 
For  we  have  played  in  childhood  there 

Beneath  the  hawthorn's  bough, 
And  bent  our  knee  in  childish  prayer 

I  cannot  utter  now  ! 

Of  late  so  reckless  and  so  wild, 

That  spot  recalls  to  me 
That  I  was  once  a  laughing  child, 

As  innocent  as  she ; 
And  there,  while  August's  wild  flow'rs  wave, 

I  wandered  all  alone, 
Strewed  blossoms  on  her  little  grave, 

And  knelt  beside  the  stone. 
139 


Racing  Rhymes 

I  seem  to  have  a  load  to  bear, 

A  heavy,  choking  grief; 
Could  I  have  forced  a  single  tear 

I  might  have  felt  relief. 
I  think  my  hot  and  restless  heart 

Has  scorched  the  channels  dry, 
From  which  those  sighs  of  sorrow  start 

To  moisten  cheek  and  eye. 

Sister,  farewell !  farewell  once  more 

To  every  youthful  tie  ! 
Friends  !   parents  !  kinsmen  !  native  shore  ! 

To  each  and  all  good-bye  ! 
And  thoughts  which  for  the  moment  seem 

To  bind  me  with  a  spell, 
Ambitious  hope  !  love's  boyish  dream  ! 

To  you  a  last  farewell ! 


140 


DE  TE 

A  BURNING  glass  of  burnish'd  brass, 
The  calm  sea  caught  the  noontide 
rays, 
And  sunny  slopes  of  golden  grass 

And  wastes  of  weed-flower  seem  to  blaze. 
Beyond  the  shining  silver  greys, 

Beyond  the  shades  of  denser  bloom, 
The  sky-line  girt  with  glowing  haze, 
The  farthest,  faintest  forest  gloom, 
And  the  everlasting  hills  that  loom. 

We  heard  the  hound  beneath  the  mound, 

We  scared  the  swamp  hawk  hovering  nigh  — 
We  had  not  sought  for  that  we  found  — 

He  lay  as  dead  men  only  lie, 
With  wan  cheek  whitening  in  the  sky, 

Through  the  wild  heath  flowers,  white  and  red 
The  dumb  brute  that  had  seen  him  die, 

Close  crouching,  howl'd  beside  the  head, 

Brute  burial  service  o'er  the  dead, 
141 


Racing  Rhymes 

The  brow  was  rife  with  seams  of  strife  — 
A  lawless  death  made  doubly  plain 

The  ravage  of  a  reckless  life  ; 
The  havoc  of  a  hurricane 

Of  passions  through  that  breadth  of  brain, 
Like  headlong  horses  that  had  run 

Riot,  regardless  of  the  rein  — 

"  Madman,  he  might  have  lived  and  done 
Better  than  most  men,"  whisper'd  one. 

The  beams  and  blots  that  Heaven  allots 

To  every  life  with  life  begin. 
Fool !  would  you  change  the  leopard's  spots, 

Or  blanch  the  Ethiopian's  skin  ? 
What  more  could  he  have  hoped  to  win, 

What  better  things  have  thought  to  gain, 
So  shapen  —  so  conceived  in  sin  ? 

No  life  is  wholly  void  and  vain, 

Just  and  unjust  share  sun  and  rain. 

Were  new  life  sent,  and  life  misspent 

Wiped  out  (if  such  to  God  seemed  good), 

Would  he  (being  as  he  was)  repent, 
Or  could  he,  even  if  he  would, 

Who  heeded  not  things  understood 
142 


De  Te 

(Though  dimly)  even  in  savage  lands 
By  some  who  worship  stone  or  wood, 
Or  bird  or  beast,  or  who  stretch  hands 
Sunward  on  shining  Eastern  sands? 

And  crime  has  cause.     Nay,  never  pause 

Idly  to  feel  a  pulseless  wrist ; 
Brace  up  the  massive,  square-shaped  jaws, 

Unclench  the  stubborn,  stifTning  fist, 
And  close  those  eyes  through  film  and  mist, 

That  kept  the  old  defiant  glare ; 
And  answer,  wise  Psychologist, 

Whose  science  claims  some  little  share 

Of  truth,  what  better  things  lay  there  ? 

Aye  !    thought   and   mind   were   there,  —  some 
kind 

Of  faculty  that  men  mistake 
For  talent  when  their  wits  are  blind,  — 

An  aptitude  to  mar  and  break 
What  others  diligently  make. 

This  was  the  worst  and  best  of  him  - 
Wise  with  the  cunning  of  the  snake, 

Brave  with  the  she  wolfs  courage  grim, 

Dying  hard  and  dumb,  torn  limb  from  limb. 
'43 


Racing  Rhymes 

And  you,  Brown,  you  're  a  doctor ;  cure 
You  can't,  but  you  can  kill,  and  he  — 

"  Witness  his  mark  "  — he  signed  last  year, 
And  now  he  signs  John  Smith,  J.  P. 

We  '11  hold  our  inquest  now,  we  three  ; 
I  '11  be  your  coroner  for  once  ; 

I  think  old  Oswald  ought  to  be 

Our  foreman  —  Jones  is  such  a  dunce,  — 
There's    more    brain    in    the    bloodhound's 
sconce. 

No  man  may  shirk  the  allotted  work, 

The  deed  to  do,  the  death  to  die ; 
At  least  I  think  so,  —  neither  Turk, 

Nor  Jew,  nor  infidel  am  I,  — 
And  yet  I  wonder  when  I  try 

To  solve  one  question,  may  or  must, 
And  shall  I  solve  it  by-and-by, 

Beyond  the  dark,  beneath  the  dust? 

I  trust  so,  and  I  only  trust. 

Aye,  what  they  will,  such  trifles  kill. 

Comrade,  for  one  good  deed  of  yours, 
Your  history  shall  not  help  to  fill 

The  mouths  of  many  brainless  boors. 
144 


DeTe 

It  may  be  death  absolves  or  cures 
The  sin  of  life.     'T  were  hazardous 

To  assert  so.     If  the  sin  endures, 

Say  only,  "  God,  who  has  judged  him  thus, 
Be  merciful  to  him  and  us." 


THE   RHYME   OF  JOYOUS  GARDE 

LORD  CHRIST  !  have  patience  a  little  while 
I  have  sinn'd  because  I  am  utterly  vile, 
Having  light,  loving  darkness  rather. 
And  I  pray  Thee  deal  with  me  as  Thou  wilt, 
Yet  the  blood  of  Thy  foes  I  have  freely  spilt, 
And,  moreover,  mine  is  the  greater  guilt, 
In  the  sight  of  Thee  and  Thy  Father. 


GONE 

GOD  grant  that  whenever,  soon  or  late, 
Our   course   is  run  and   our  goal  is 
reach'd, 

We  may  meet  our  fate  as  steady  and  straight 
As  he  whose  bones  in  yon  desert  bleach'd ; 
No  tears  are  needed  —  our  cheeks  are  dry, 
We  have  none  to  waste  upon  living  woe ; 
Shall  we  sigh  for  one  who  has  ceased  to  sigh, 
Having  gone,  my  friends,  where  we  all  must  go  ? 


146 


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